


Anchor

by thegeminisage



Series: Anchor [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Asexual Character, Asexual Derek Hale, Beards (Facial Hair), Blow Jobs, Cohabitation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, Grief Beards, Grief/Mourning, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Underage, Sexual Dysfunction, Slow Burn, Stone Top Derek Hale, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Warning: Kate Argent, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeminisage/pseuds/thegeminisage
Summary: Derek insists on coming along with Chris Argent and the Calaveras on the hunt for Kate, so he can see her dead for good. While following her trail back to Beacon Hills, they come to understand some hard truths about both each other and themselves, and struggle to find the reason why, after losing nearly everyone they've ever loved, they're still here.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists because 1. I noticed that in almost every romantic scene of Teen Wolf the couple present always finds a way to check in and get consent and ask if it's okay, EXCEPT scenes with Derek 2. there's an unusual detail in a certain story Chris Argent tells that really grabbed my attention and 3. I have been shipping this in secret shame since Derek's "you're NOT my ally, you're a HUNTER" line aired live 2014, and it was high time to get it out of my system.
> 
> Please be advised: this is technically an AU veering away from canon after the end of S4, and you won't understand most of it if you didn't watch everything all the way through the end of S4, but especially 3B and S4. I know, I know, everything after S2 was terrible, waaaahhh! But like, I have a Vision™ here, and I need you to work with me, okay? So just go watch it and then come back, it's not THAT bad. I promise.
> 
> For the squeamish and the wary: I understand, and I got you. ❤ General warnings in the tags, detailed spoilery warnings (they are very long...) at the end.
> 
> If you're the type who likes to listen to music while you read, I'd like to take a moment to recommend [Novo Amor - Anchor (Ed Tullet Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbDZhqBgKgE), which actually played briefly in 6A. While I didn't name the fic for the song, it (and [the original](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1g7RzVKByw)) are by happy accident mostly what I listened to while writing this! EDIT: I also made a spoiler-free mini-soundtrack [here](https://thepornwritingasexual.tumblr.com/post/164011074149/do-not-laugh-at-me-i-am-doing-this-to-please) (if you like to listen on YouTube) or [here](https://8tracks.com/thegeminisage/anch0r) (if you like to listen to 8tracks) because I just wanted to.

_"What does your boss think of the animal attacks?" Chris asks Scott. "Any theories?"_

_"Everyone's just saying it's a mountain lion."_

_"Have to be a pretty large mountain lion," Kate scoffs. She and Victoria trade smirks, and Victoria asks, "What do you think, Scott?"_

_"I dunno—we usually get cats and dogs at the vet, nothin' that vicious..."_

_"Never had to deal with a rabid dog?" Chris asks, and Scott shakes his head. "No? I grew up with a lot of dogs. I saw one get rabies from a bat—it was transferred through the bite."_

_Kate picks up her wine glass, eyes turned heavenward, and takes a long drink. She knows, of course, what he's actually talking about._

_"People think that a rabid dog just suddenly goes mad," Chris says, "but it's a lot more gradual. First stage is subtle changes in behavior—they're restless, morose." And if you didn't know any better, if you weren't a hunter, you'd think they were still them. That they were still people._

_It's very difficult to tell the difference. Even he's been tricked before._

_"It's the second stage people note," he continues. "The furious phase. That's when they attack, and we're talking any moving object. Did you know that a caged rabid dog will break its own teeth trying to chew through the bars? It'll even rear back and snap its own spine—can you imagine? The amount of force it would take to do that?"_

_Chris doesn't have to imagine; he remembers. The snarling, the cracking of broken bones, the groan of metal against all that strength. Claws that left 2-inch gouges in a concrete wall where his head been only seconds before, glowing eyes flashing in the dark—_

_And the body, after. Skull caved in, covered in blood—the only way to make it stop._

_"It's a complete character reversal," he murmurs. "This harmless animal—turned into a perfectly vicious killer. And it all started with that one bite."_

_Chris knows it well—the shape fangs leave in human skin._

_"But it died, didn't it?" Allison asks quietly. As though it makes her sad, for some long-dead thing she'll never even know._

_"Yes, because your grandfather shot it," Victoria says sternly, and Allison replies, "Because he wanted to put it out of its misery," because she thinks it's about kindness and mercy, but—_

_"Because it was too dangerous," Chris says. There's no mercy to be had: not for a thing like that. "Something that out of control is better off dead."_

 

 

* * *

# A N C H O R

* * *

 

 

"I made a deal with the Calaveras weeks ago," Argent admits. "They'll leave you alone—all of you. But only if I help them catch Kate."

"What if you can't?"

"I'll find her," Argent says. He hopes he doesn't sound as tired as he feels. "Someone has to."

And then Derek Hale slams the door of the transport van shut, locking Peter inside, and says: "I'm coming with you."

Argent closes his eyes a moment. "You can't." He turns to face Derek fully, keenly aware of Araya Calavera's eyes on him. "You're still a werewolf, Derek." He keeps his voice low: so low that human ears can't catch it. "The Calaveras will make an exception in exchange for a favor, but they don't let werewolves join hunting parties. You don't know Araya like I do. If you come with us, sooner or later, she _will_ try to kill you."

"I spent two days on her electric rack and then watched her hack off Peter's finger," Derek shoots back, though he's lowered his voice too. "I know her well enough."

Argent grits his teeth. Of _course_ Derek's spent time on the electric rack. "Kate is my responsibility."

"And mine," Derek insists. "She wouldn't be like this if not for Peter trying to kill her, and he wouldn't have wanted to kill her if not for the fire."

It takes Argent a moment to figure out what he's really saying. The Hale fire happened on Argent's watch, right under his nose: he was blind, unwilling to believe anyone he loved would break an oath he held so sacred, and that was why he hadn't seen the signs and stopped it before it started. _That_ was when his little sister Katie turned into a monster, long before she was turned into that thing he watched kill her way across the battlefield last night. This whole time he's been blaming himself for that oversight, but it's clear now that Derek thinks differently.

Argent opens his mouth, uncertain. Closes it again.

Satisfied, Derek raises his voice loud enough for Araya and the rest of the Calaveras to hear him. "Kate doesn't have the discipline or control to cover her true scent," he says. " _I_ can track that scent. That's something none of you can do."

Araya steps forward, and Argent fights down the urge to put himself between her and Derek. She looks Derek up and down, smiling. "You were an alpha too once, weren't you, Derek? How many did you turn?"

Derek says nothing.

"And blue eyes," she muses. "You're a dangerous creature, lobito. Tell me: how many did you _kill_?"

"You'll find her faster with me," Derek says. He doesn't look afraid. "All I want is to know for _sure_ that she can't hurt anyone else. You get two extra pairs of hands instead of one, and your end of the bargain doesn't change. I'll help you find her, I'll go back to Beacon Hills, and we'll leave each other alone." He lifts his eyebrows, expectant. "That was the deal, right?"

Araya narrows her eyes, still as the snake before the strike. A long moment passes; Argent's hand inches toward his pistol.

But when Araya extends her own hand, it's empty. "That was the deal," she agrees. They shake on it. Araya is still smiling; grandmotherly, almost fond.

Argent has seen it many times before. It's the way she smiles right before she kills someone.

 

* * *

 

Having werewolf senses again is fantastic. But being able to full-shift?

There is nothing, _nothing_ , Derek could ever have done to deserve this feeling. He didn't just get it all back—everything is brand new. The taste of the desert air, the sand and rocks beneath his paws, the steady sound of half a dozen heartbeats in the van winding through the road below him, the way he can outpace it if he chooses, run and run and run and never ever get tired. He's still himself, but his thoughts and feelings are all simpler now, because things like guilt and doubt just can't keep up. It's all the euphoria of full moon, without having to fight the bloodlust or the rage. It's peace.

No wonder the banshee screamed for him. For two long months he was helpless to stop the loss of his senses, his power, his _self_ , and every day he died a little more. Now he's more alive than he's ever been.

Every so often, Derek lets loose a howl from his place in the hills to let the Calaveras know where he is, and he can't help the thrill of exhilaration that comes with the knowledge that all their heartbeats speed up at the sound. Argent is right: deal or not, sooner or later, they'll move against him. But right now, Derek is invincible.

Derek's senses are even sharper like this than they were as an alpha. He can hear every word of the conversation taking place inside the van. Right now, Araya's speaking to someone on the phone. He's fluent in four languages, Spanish included, but between all the other things he can hear and how quickly she speaks he only catches a little of it before she hangs up and addresses Argent.

"We're going the wrong way. That was a contact of mine in a town a few hours south of here. There's been a murder. The body looks like all the others your sister has left behind." A pause. "All since being turned, at least."

Derek's own heart beats faster at that, and briefly he imagines he can taste ash, but the feeling is fleeting: come and gone before it can close around his heart.

"Derek's taking us northwest." That's Argent. He's behind the wheel; Derek can just make out his profile in the dark from his place above the road. "She can't be heading south."

"Perhaps she has an accomplice," Araya says, noncommittal. "You can trick a wolf's senses. You know this, Christopher."

"It's Argent."

"Then act like it. You really think someone couldn't take an article of clothing west if she paid them to?"

"On the other hand, there's lots of wild animals out here. Anything could be responsible for that murder. The scent is a solid lead."

Another pause, this one longer. Derek loses sight of Argent's profile for a moment as the van dips into a valley. "You trust him. A _werewolf_."

"I trust his sense of smell," Argent hedges. "And I know Kate. Right now I think it's more likely that she's alone."

"Turn around," Araya instructs. "We're going south."

Argent sighs and the van begins to slow. "Hold on, let me get Derek's attention—"

Derek doesn't give him time. He bounds down into the road, skidding to a halt and kicking up dust in front of the headlights. Argent swears and slams on the brakes, and Derek's chuckling as he shifts back into his human form.

The driver's door pops open. There's a flash of—something—a scent on the air—but it's gone too quickly to identify, and then Argent throws him a pair of sweatpants. "We're going south," he says, crossing his arms. He doesn't look happy.

"I heard," Derek says. He pulls the sweatpants on. "It's a mistake," he adds to Araya. "She's headed northwest. Probably back to Beacon Hills."

"I doubt she would be so foolish," Araya dismisses. "We are going south. If you intend on coming with us, then follow. If not, we are just as glad to be rid of you."

Derek growls.

Argent steps in. "Hold on," he says. "Araya—you know you can't ignore the scent."

Araya scoffs. "No one escapes the Calaveras, and we have never needed to track by _scent_ to make it so. If I'm wrong, we'll catch up to her sooner or later. But perhaps..." She smiles, wrinkles folding around her eyes. "If you are so sure, the two of you can follow the scent as far as it goes, and call me with what you find. Is this not what we wanted more people for?"

Derek and Argent exchange a glance. Is she getting rid of them or testing them?

"Just remember, Christopher," she says. "We had a deal. An exception for Beacon Hills—so long as you help us find Kate. You are still helping us. If you decide that you are no longer interested in holding up your end of the deal, well..." She shrugs. "We'll know where to find you." She leans in. "Do you understand? If you find Kate, you must kill her. Can you do that?"

Argent swallows. "Yes," he says.

But Derek knows, because he listened to Argent's heart while he spoke: he can't.

 

* * *

 

"The least they could've done was drop us off at a town."

"What are you complaining for? You don't need wheels, you can run."

"And leave you here for dead?" Derek glances sideways at Argent, giving him a once-over. "Tempting, but I'll pass." He jogs ahead of a little, face lifted to the wind.

Argent tries not to feel flattered. There was definitely a time when Derek would have left him for dead.

"I can take care of myself," Argent says. He shifts his pack on his shoulders; his wound makes it harder to carry. "Nothing too dangerous out here anyway."

"Definitely nothing more dangerous than me," Derek says over his shoulder.

Derek certainly doesn't look dangerous at the moment. All he has on his person is his phone and the same pair of sweatpants Argent tossed him an hour ago. He's unbothered by the cold, the dark—he walks on the dusty road in bare feet, no shirt, not even a flashlight aimed in front of him, looking for all the world like an easy target. But Argent sees the muscles moving beneath his tattoo, and he knows what Derek's eyes look like flashing in the dark, the shape his fangs leave in human skin. Three times now he's seen Derek kill. The only thing out here that's as dangerous as Derek is Argent himself.

So he lets it drop.

It's only—Argent checks his phone—thirteen miles to town. They won't make it tonight, but if they cover a lot of ground before they sleep it'll be a short walk in the morning. Another of the Calaveras' contacts will provide them with a vehicle and a few more supplies, but after that, they're on their own. "I hope you're sure about this. You've still got her scent?"

"Still got it," Derek confirms. He gets a little quiet, pausing to let Argent catch up. "It's so strange," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"What's strange?"

Derek clears his throat, glancing at Argent and then away. "Uh, you know—most people, their scent changes over time, especially if they get turned. It's just natural." He inhales. "But she still smells almost exactly the same as she did the day I met her."

"When was that, exactly?" Argent asks. It's not his business, really, nothing to pry into with his morbid curiosity. But there's so much he never knew. Tried not to know, because Kate was his sister and he loved her. It's too late to make reparations now, but still he wonders: what year was it, where was he, what was he _doing_ , that he didn't see it coming?

But Derek remains silent, so Argent gets to keep wondering.

"You know," Argent says after a while, "You don't have to do this. If you're not—up for it."

Derek glares. "If you're saying I can't handle it—"

"Asking."

"I should be asking _you_ ," Derek says, giving a nearby pebble a vicious little kick down the road. "I heard you lie to Araya. You can't kill Kate."

Ah, hell.

Argent never did learn to control his heartbeat. That was a talent his father had, and Gerard was always after him to learn, but Argent never needed to lie to a werewolf. He was too busy killing them.

"I can do what's necessary," he says, eyes on the horizon. "I always do."

"But you can't," Derek presses. "I can hear it in your heartbeat. You can't kill her."

He wants to. His sister is a monster in more ways than one now. She won't stop until she's dead and by all rights he should be the one to pull the trigger. And God help him: he _tried_ , back at La Iglesia, but at the last second—

His will failed him. He aimed a little too low, and the bullet meant to end Kate instead just missed her heart.

Because he remembers her in pigtails, and the times she snuck him food when he was sent to bed without supper; he remembers the piggyback rides she gave Allison and how she did the funny voices during her bedtime stories. He's the only one left who does. He has so little family left.

But if push came to shove—

He remembers too the blind panic he felt when Victoria, moments away from her first werewolf transformation, turned toward him with tears in her eyes and asked him to help her. He was thinking _I can't do this_ the entire time, even as he pressed his lips against her cheek and drove the blade into her heart. By then she must have been able to hear his, the way it beat against his ribs like a trapped and frightened thing. But still he did what he thought was his duty.

Argent doesn't think he could do that again: kill someone he loves. Loved. But it doesn't matter what he thinks, or what Derek thinks. In the end it only matters what he does. And—

"I can do what's necessary," Argent repeats, voice hushed. They pass under an outcropping of rock, throwing them both into shadow. "I can. I will."

"You're a terrible liar," Derek says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I think that's my favorite thing about you."

So much for feeling flattered. Argent stops walking, spreading his hands. "What else do you expect me to say? I won't enjoy it, I don't like it, but she needs to die and she's my responsibility. When it comes down to it—"

"When it came down to it, _you missed_ ," Derek spits, suddenly furious. He rounds on Argent. "This could have been over by now!"

"Your uncle did shove a piece of rebar through my ribs two days ago," Argent reminds Derek, annoyed. "I nearly bled to death."

"Yeah, I'm sure that was it." Derek jerks his head. "Go on, tell me _your_ aim suffers when you're injured. That you haven't been able to hit a person at a hundred feet since you were old enough to hold a gun. You're a _perfect shot_ , Argent. You've hit _me_ from further away than that."

Argent clenches his jaw shut, breathing hard.

"You've got no right," Derek says, walking forward, getting right in Argent's space, " _no right_ , to ask if I can handle this when you don't even know if you can. Not when you—"

He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, swallowing rapidly. Argent's pulse picks up, made all the worse by knowing Derek hears it. "What?"

"This really what gets you going?" Derek asks tightly. "You know, for people who claim to think of my kind as a bunch of dumb animals, you Argents sure do seem to have a thing for werewolves."

Argent jerks back, stunned as though Derek had struck him, only to run into the wall of rock.

"I can smell it on you," Derek says. "I've been able to smell it on you all night." He looks angry, almost betrayed: it's not hard to figure out why. "What, you've been watching the rest of your family fuck me over and decided it was about time you had your turn?"

"That's not fair," Argent says furiously, except maybe it is. Derek's got a right to his suspicion, even if Argent knows better. "It's not like that," he tries instead. "Listen to my heartbeat: it's not."

Derek still looks suspicious, but the line of his shoulders relaxes just a little. "Then what is it like?"

Maybe not being able to control his pulse is for the best after all: all Argent has to do is be honest, and Derek will believe him. "You're a good-looking guy, Derek." He shrugs. "But I wasn't going to—to try anything." Truthfully, he hadn't put even that much thought into it, aside from paying a little too much attention to the way Derek looks in sweatpants (or out of them). He hasn't attempted dating or anything like it since Victoria died; he's still wearing his wedding ring.

Derek's eyes narrow. "But you'd be _interested_ in trying something—”

"I know better than to think _you'd_ be interested," Argent shoots back, embarrassed, "so it's not on the table: end of story."

Derek's expression is hard to read in the darkness. "You do, huh," he says lowly, and takes Argent's face in his hands and kisses him.

Argent's hands come up in surprise, and he for a split second he truly intends to push Derek away, but at the last moment he slides his fingers through the short hair at the back of his head instead. Argent's been alone for a long time—he forgot what it was like, to have another person this close. Derek's body is hot pressed up against his, Argent can feel it even through his clothes.

They break apart. Argent's already half-hard. "How long?" he asks, bewildered; he can't imagine Derek Hale carrying a torch for him.

Derek wets his lips. "About a minute and a half?" he guesses, looking just as confused about the question as Argent is about his answer. "So yes or no?"

And the thing is: he actually does seem to be waiting for the go-ahead. They're still close, but they aren't touching; there's a precarious half-inch of space between them. Derek's eyes are on his, and not anywhere lower.

Argent is certain that before they kissed he could have come up with a hundred reasons this is a very, very bad idea, but none of them seem very important now. Except: a minute and a half ago Derek seemed angry and defensive, and he doesn't understand what changed since then. He opens his mouth, hesitates.

Derek sees it, and starts to move away. And suddenly what changed doesn't matter—it only matters that Derek doesn't leave. " _Yes_ ," Argent says, and pulls Derek into another kiss.

This one is a little slower, and Argent takes the time to brush his thumb under Derek's earlobe, earning a little shiver in response. Derek presses into him, his thigh wedged between Argent's legs. Argent loops an arm around his waist to keep him close, his cock already heavy and thick pressing into the seam of his jeans. He rolls his hips a little; the jolt of arousal goes straight up his spine. It's been such a _long_ time and he has been so very alone. He didn't think he could feel like this again.

Derek slips his hands underneath Argent's shirt, and Argent shivers too, grip around his waist going a little tighter. All night he's been wondering how the chill of a desert night doesn't bother Derek, but now he remembers: werewolves run hot. Somehow he'd forgotten. The pads of Derek's fingers are smooth, not like Argent's, and he's careful as he trails them up Argent's chest, avoiding his wound. There's a dizzying, floating sensation: Derek's taking the edge off Argent's pain, and the sheer relief from the absence of it is enough to make his head spin. He groans Derek's name into his mouth. Without the hurting there to temper it he needs, he _needs_ , and he isn't too proud to breathe a quiet _please_ against Derek's lips.

Derek breaks the kiss, turning his head so his stubble grazes Argent's cheek. He's so close, his breath hot against Argent's neck—he dips his head and takes Argent's earlobe between his teeth, and drops his hands to Argent's pants. He pops the button open and unzips his fly.

Then Derek's gone, and Argent's disoriented until he figures out Derek dropped to his knees. Argent's hands have nothing to hold on to now, so he braces himself against the rock wall behind him, looking down at Derek with wide eyes.

Derek presses his face against Argent's boxers, but it's thin cloth and Argent can feel the dampness of his lips on his cock. "Please," Argent says again, and has to lift his hands to stroke through Derek's hair. He doesn't want to be overly familiar—and isn't that something, considering what they're doing—but he needs to touch. His skin is pulled tight; he's got chill bumps on his arms, body already lit up with sensation and craving more.

Derek presses a kiss into the dip of Argent's hip and slips one hand in his shorts, squeezing a little. Argent makes a broken-off sound, biting his lip, breathing hard through his nose. Derek jerks him off slow with one hand, and uses the other to clumsily tug down his boxers. "Never done this before," he warns, and Argent closes his eyes against that knowledge, cock blurting a little precome onto Derek's thumb.

Derek doesn't make Argent wait longer than that. He takes him into his mouth, soft and hot and wet, and Argent sucks in a shuddering breath. " _Fuck_ ," he says.

Derek smirks a little and rubs at the underside of Argent's cock with the flat of his tongue. Then his cheeks hollow as he sucks on the pull back, swiping his tongue over the head. That's the rhythm he keeps, and with each movement he gets a little more of Argent's cock in him until he's just about all the way, nose pressing into Argent's body.

"I won't last," Argent warns, voice ragged and unsteady. He's fighting his body as hard as he can, because he _wants_ this to last, he doesn't know if he'll ever feel this way again, but the truth is: "Derek—I won't last."

Derek pulls off, covering Argent with both hands. He's protecting him from the chill, Argent realizes, and he's oddly endeared, for all the capacity he has to think about anything besides the aching need between his legs. "Warn me," Derek says. Makes sense—probably doesn't want to swallow on his first time.

Except a moment later, when Argent's right at the edge and gripping Derek's shoulder with white knuckles, when he _has_ to warn him, Derek doesn't simply get out of the way but stands. One hand stays on Argent's cock, stroking him with long, even pulls, but the other cups the back of Argent's head. Derek kisses him again, and it's—actually better, being able to hold on to him, even without his mouth. Argent clutches at his shoulders, forehead pressed against Derek's.

Derek turns his head a little, lips near Argent's ear again. "C'mon," he murmurs, voice low and rough. Argent wishes he could see his face. "C'mon."

It's certainly nothing special as far as dirty talk goes, but the genuine desire in his tone is what sends Argent over the edge. He jerks and cries out as if shot, and comes hard and suddenly on the ground below them, face pressed into Derek's shoulder, breath leaving him in harsh gasps.

Derek holds him though it, lets him grab at his shoulders while he rides it out. But when Argent finally gets it together enough to think to return the favor, and lets his hands slide down to Derek's sweats, Derek catches him by the wrists. "Mm-mm."

Argent blinks, a little dazed. "What?"

"Hands above my waist," Derek says. He sounds a little amused. "I already got what I wanted."

And Argent thinks—okay, he must be the type to get off getting someone else off, so maybe he already finished, or maybe he took care of himself when Argent wasn't paying attention. A little disappointing, sure, but also pretty hot, so that's all right. He wonders if they can do it again—if maybe he can take care of Derek first next time.

But when he glances down at Derek's sweats, he sees Derek's hard. Argent blinks again.

"But you're—"

"Not interested," Derek says with a shrug, though his body is clearly saying otherwise. He tucks Argent's cock back into his shorts, touches feather-light, and does up his fly. "It's nothing personal. I'm just not into that."

Argent shakes his head. "Not into—?" he repeats, incredulous. "What kind of guy doesn't want—?"

Argent gets lucky, then. He's so doped up on the high of good sex he could have missed it pretty easily: the way Derek's expression turns a little guarded, the way he backs off half a step. _Never done this before_ , Argent remembers, and it hits him—really, fully hits him, now that he's thinking with his upstairs brain—what he's just walked into.

The last hunter Derek slept with seduced him with the sole intent of tricking him into helping her burn his entire family alive, and she succeeded. Argent doesn't know how it was with Kate, how many times it happened or even how old Derek was, but he realizes now that of course it must have been bad. You sure as hell don't turn down a blowjob when you're hard because of something _good_. Maybe he was even still eighteen or nineteen; maybe she was even his first.

And aside from Kate, and Jennifer Blake, who from all Argent knows apparently seduced and tricked Derek just as easily Kate did, he has no idea if Derek ever thought it was worth the trouble to sleep with anyone else.

Argent's got to be _careful_ , he realizes, he's got to be _really careful_ , because he's walking through a minefield completely in the dark.

"Okay," Argent says. He doesn't understand it, and he doesn't like not understanding it, but the important thing now is to get that wariness out of Derek's expression. "Hey," he says. "It's okay. You got what you wanted. So did I. Works for me."

Derek's jaw works a moment, and he takes a deep breath, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "Okay," he repeats quietly. Then he claps Argent on the shoulder. "Got your legs back under you yet?" he asks. "I bet we can make it a few more miles before we have to sleep."

 

* * *

 

Derek keep tabs on Kate's scent as they walk, and realizes about a mile later that her course avoids the town entirely and instead passes through some rocky hills to the north. It's what Derek would do, if he were on the run—hunt for his own food, find his own source of water, and settle down somewhere he can avoid the obvious places until the danger passed. It's what his mother always taught them: when the hunters are out, you hide and heal. You wait.

"'Course, she wasn't taught like us," he says to Chris. He's carrying Chris's pack for him; he'd felt the pain of that wound first-hand, and it's a nasty one. "I don't know what Argents teach you to do when you're being hunted."

Chris doesn't look at him. "Submit."

Derek grimaces.

"She probably isn't settling anywhere," Chris says, thoughtful. "She's hoping her body can take more, because of what she is, so she's trying to put as much distance between us as possible before she has to stop. She might not know you came along," he adds. "It's certainly not anything _I'd_ expect Araya to allow."

"So she's going places vehicles can't reach," Derek says, "and staying away from places to resupply, because she doesn't need supplies when she can hunt." He sighs. "There's no more blood on her scent, so she must have dug out the wolfsbane bullet and healed by now," he says. "Even werewolves need sleep eventually, but if she's not wounded, she can make good time."

After a brief argument—Derek wants to split up so he can run into the hills and try to overtake Kate now, while Chris thinks it's smarter to stick together—Derek reluctantly agrees to start looking for a place to sleep for the night. It's past the 24-hour mark for both of them, and Chris is wounded on top of that. As much as Derek wants to see Kate dead, Chris stuck his neck out for Derek today, when Araya wanted to go south. Derek can't ditch him just for being human.

"We'll catch up to her," Chris assures him. "My family has been hunting things faster than us for hundreds of years. It's a marathon, not sprint. She uses up this much energy now, she'll be a little slower later."

Somehow, Derek doesn't find that very comforting.

They find another rock outcropping and build a small fire beneath it to ward off the chill. Partially because Chris is both human and wounded, and partially because Derek doesn't particularly like the idea of being defenseless around him, Derek offers to take first watch.

For a moment he thinks Chris is going to fight him on it, either out of pride or some weird misplaced sense of guilt, but in the end whatever he's thinking he keeps to himself, just stretches out on the ground with the pack as his pillow. "Ninety minutes," he says. "We'll sleep for real when we get to town. And Derek—"

"Yeah?" Derek makes a show of checking the time on his phone.

Chris sighs. "Nothing." His heartbeat trips, but Derek doesn't call him on it. He doesn't particularly feel like talking about it yet, not until he's had time to think it over for himself. He can't exactly trust his own judgment when it comes to this stuff. "See you in ninety," says Chris. And in less than two he's fast asleep.

It's a little creepy of Derek to stare at Chris while he's sleeping, but there's not much to do on watch aside from actual watching, so he lets himself look for a while anyway. Chris doesn't look much like Kate when he's asleep—their only striking similarity is their eyes, not quite the same color but both eerily light, almost white in the right light. Chris looks older, though: more tired. Something about the overgrown beard, or the shadows the firelight throws into the wrinkles and scars on his face. Still, he's attractive enough, Derek guesses, in that rugged sort of way. Other people might think he was handsome, but Derek doesn't think he's much like other people. He finds Chris about the same amount of attractive he found Braeden, or Jennifer, or—

Well, that's no place to let his thoughts wander. Derek takes a deep breath to clear his head—except of course that doesn't help at all. He can still, just faintly, catch Kate's scent.

So he focuses on Chris's scent instead. It's much closer, so it doesn't take long to drown out everything else, the way it did earlier, when Derek was sucking him off. Maybe that's why he did it. Maybe after dealing with Kate all day he just wanted someone else's scent, _anyone's_ , just for awhile, to focus on. Or maybe he's trying to get an edge over someone who could turn out to be a threat later. Hell, maybe he's just lonely.

Or maybe...

It's just nice, is all. To know someone wants him, but it's not—like that.

He knows it's not like that because Chris said so and Chris is bad at lying, at least to people who can hear his heartbeat. Kate was great at it—she knew just how to word her sentences and control her pulse to trick a thing like him. But Chris probably couldn't lie to a werewolf to save his life. Derek's known Chris long enough to be pretty sure he's not going to turn on him—if he wanted to kill Derek or anyone Derek cared about, he's had plenty of chances—but it's still comforting to know for sure.

And Chris let it go, earlier, when Derek said he was done, despite the questions all over his face. That's something.

Content with that, Derek settles against the rocky wall behind him, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

He doesn't mean to doze off. Normally he wouldn't be caught dead letting his guard down in a situation like this. But he's been up for a long time, and he actually did die for a few minutes there last night. He jerks himself awake a couple of times, and considers waking Chris early, but in the end, it's easier to remain still, and let the exhaustion take him.

It's a mistake. The faint scent of Kate Argent and the crackling of the fire invade his sleep, and suddenly he is sixteen again, hand-in-hand with Laura, watching his house burn down. He and Laura rushed here as soon as her eyes turned colors, and what greeted them was the stink of burning bodies, and silence: no heartbeats, and no screaming. They were too late before they took their first step.

No matter what the authorities say in the weeks and months and years to come, Derek and Laura will always know that hunters set this fire, because the house is surrounded by a line of mountain ash, and they cannot cross anymore than the rest of their family, surely now ash themselves. But only Derek will know which hunter laid the line—only Derek knows her scent. Because it was Derek who told her their secrets, and it was Derek who let her get close—who traded his family's lives just for her touch—

Touch, touch—who's touching him?

Derek's eyes pop open. There are hands on his chest and he's sleep-deprived and frightened and for a moment can't remember where he is, only knows that someone with light eyes has their face close to his, that he can smell Kate's scent on the wind and feel the heat of the flames next to him and he won't, he won't, he _won't_ let her touch him anymore.

Derek _snarls_ , flashing his fangs and his eyes, scrambling uselessly backwards against the wall behind him, and—

Chris lets him go. Chris: not Kate.

"Easy," Chris says, and reaches out again—

"Don't fucking touch me," Derek spits, throwing up a hand between them. It's not all for his own sake. "Get back—get _back_ —"

Chris gets back.

_Not now_ , Derek thinks, _please not now_ , but even though the dream is over his pulse is still racing, and he cannot get it under control. He digs his claws into his palm, the one Chris can't see, because his last resort is pain—pain makes you human. Derek digs deep, and waits for his pulse and breathing to even back out. He doesn't want to hurt anyone.

"What the hell was that?" Chris demands, once the danger has passed.

Ugh. "What did it look like?" Derek gets out through gritted teeth, hoping he can blame the time it took to shift back on the dream. He wouldn't even know how to begin to explain the truth. It's still a death sentence to admit he doesn't have control in front of a hunter, even Chris—maybe especially Chris, because he exhibits so much control it's honestly a little alarming. "Just don't touch me when I'm asleep."

"All right, all right," Chris says, shaking his head, and then offers: "Sorry."

"My fault," Derek admits. "For dozing off when it was my turn to keep watch."

He gets to his feet. There's a thin line of pink on the horizon, which means both he and Chris slept longer than they intended to. "Give me the pack," he mutters. He has at last had enough of the chill and more than enough of his own state of undress. "I want to put on a fucking shirt before we get into town."

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Derek doesn't get to keep his shirt on long.

The contact Araya referred Argent to turns out to have her entire home made of ash wood. They know because once Derek tries to cross her threshold, he's thrown back violently onto the ground, and his eyes flash blue.

Her hand is on her pistol in an instant. Argent shouts, "Wait, wait—" and pulls her gun arm down just as the shot cracks.

That gives Derek enough time to shift—in broad daylight, in front of her and at least three other people inside who came to see what the commotion was about. Argent closes his eyes and when he's opened them Derek is gone, leaving his clothes in a puddle on the dirt behind him.

"You knew what he was?" she demands. "And you were going to bring him into my home? Can you not see his eyes?"

Argent spreads his hands. "Araya told him he could come," he says, which is a complete nonanswer. He's very good at those. "What was I supposed to say?" He's leaving out the part where he advocated they follow Derek's sense of smell over Araya's lead south, but that's just because it's easier. She wouldn't understand.

"She could have _warned_ me," the hunter spits, but she steps back to let Argent inside.

He glances back at Derek's clothes, forgotten. Derek's loss; Argent's not picking them up in front of all these other hunters.

They offer him breakfast, which he declines; as hungry as he is, Derek with his werewolf metabolism must be starving, and Argent doesn't want to eat without him after he already got shot at this morning. He does take tea, though, and talks with the hunter while one of her companions goes about gathering his supplies.

"I've heard of you, you know," she says. "You're the Bonewoman's brother. You sure you can kill her, if you catch her?"

Argent takes a careful sip of his tea. "It's not a problem." Too bad Derek's not here to call him on the trip of his heart. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had a difficult kill to make."

"I guess not," she says, sympathetic. "Sorry about your family—that's rough. I never met Victoria, but I respect her a lot for honoring the code. You ask me, it's always better when they don't become like this."

Is it? With her last breath, Victoria swore she was doing what she had to do for her family, but Kate said she was doing what she did for her family, too. What's worse—the gaping hole left behind in his and Allison's lives after Victoria was gone, or having to watch Kate turn into something monstrous before his eyes, helpless to stop it, and knowing he was going to have to be the one to end her? What's harder to bear—the guilt of helping Victoria shove that knife into her heart, or the looking into the eyes of someone he used to love and seeing almost nothing of them left?

Of course, Argent's kidding himself if he thinks Kate wasn't a monster long before she got turned. Maybe Victoria would have made the better werewolf.

"It's certainly more drawn out," he agrees. It's the only honest thing he can think of to say.

The hunter shakes her head. "I lost two brothers to the bite. One honored the code. The other did not. And the longer he stayed alive, the crazier he got, and the more he killed. Five people, before he went, and your sister's into the dozens. I heard of one French guy who kept it a secret for weeks, and he had long enough to steal an alpha's power before they got him. I'm sure he was into the dozens, too. It's shameful—cruel, to put your loved ones through that."

Argent tries very hard not to picture it. He takes another sip of tea. His hands are steady.

"Hey." The hunter leans forward. "What I'm saying is I know how hard it is to put down family. It'd be bad enough without Araya sticking you with that beast out there. You know the ones that transform completely are a hard kill."

"I know," Argent says, though Derek is the only werewolf he ever personally met with the ability.

"Do you want one of us to come with you?" the hunter asks, concern in her dark eyes. "If you have to put him down, you'll need backup."

Argent sets his teacup down. "Put him down?"

She shrugs. "Like I said: the more they kill, the crazier they get. The crazier they get, the more they kill. Even if he means well, he won't be able to stop himself from attacking you eventually; it's just his nature. I know it's a hard time for you right now, but you've gotta be prepared, huh? He's helping you right now, but we hunt those—"

"—who hunt us, yes," Argent finishes, trying to keep his annoyance in check. She means well, she truly does, but it doesn't make him any less done with this conversation. These people don't know Derek like he does: even aside from saving Argent's life once, Derek has excellent control over the shift. Sure, if he went crazy and started killing people, Argent _would_ have to do what was necessary, but Argent can't imagine Derek that out of control. He isn't anything like Kate. "I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather do this myself. It's personal—you understand."

She looks doubtful; a little sad. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us." She leans back in her seat, shouting something in Spanish into the back room. Someone else shouts back. "Your things are ready," she says. "Not much—a few weapons, some cash, a first aid kit and a canteen. And we got you some wheels, too. Nothing fancy, but it'll do the trick." She stands, leading him towards the back door.

Argent stands too. "Thank you, but I'm not sure that's necessary—Kate ran into the hills, and I doubt we could even get a car out there."

She smiles at him over her shoulder. "Good," she says, "because we don't exactly _have_ a car..."

 

* * *

 

God, but Derek loves being able to full-shift.

He decides to do it in front of half a dozen hunters partly because he sees the one at the door raising her gun and he hates being shot, and partly because he's feeling spiteful and wants to shock her—she already looks pretty scandalized, but if he gauged the Calaveras' reactions right, the full shift scares the hell out of them.

Sure enough, he hears a shot behind him, but it doesn't matter, because he's already long gone, bounding away into the dust. They can't shoot him if they can't catch him, and Derek can run like the wind on four legs, hear and smell everything for miles. Who could possibly sneak up on him in this form? Who could even keep up if they did? When he's in his normal body it's easy to forget that he died not too long ago, but in the full shift he truly does feel reborn: invincible, untouchable.

_The bite is a gift_ , he always said, and he meant it, but the others had never really understood. Then again, most bitten wolves don't get _this_. Most born ones don't, either. Derek's so, so lucky. Dying was definitely worth it.

It's a small town, so Derek kills a good half-hour by making a lap around the outskirts just for the hell of it, but when he circles back by the house Chris is still inside, and the ash wood makes it nearly impossible for Derek to eavesdrop on their conversation with the doors all closed. So Derek takes his next lap more slowly, scenting the wind; at first he's worried he's lost Kate's scent, but he finds it again about six miles north of town. Not for the first time, he's tempted to run after her alone and leave Chris behind, but as much as he wants to see her dead, it really would be stupid to go in without backup.

And he isn't sure he wants to be alone with Kate.

Derek commits the spot to memory and makes his way back to town. Chris is done at the hunter's house by the time he gets there, and Derek tracks him about four blocks away, sitting outside an alley on an overturned storage container and eating breakfast. Whatever he's having smells about a hundred times better to Derek's new senses, reminding him he hasn't eaten in a day and a half, because he was busy dying.

"There you are," Chris says as he trots over. "I was starting to wonder if you were coming back."

Derek can't talk in the full shift, so he settles for flashing his eyes once and looking as unimpressed as possible.

Chris remains unaffected. "Hungry?" he asks. "I got us huevos rancheros." When Derek doesn't react, he adds: "I got coffee, too."

Derek immediately ducks into the alley to shift. "What'd you do with my pants?"

"Maybe I left them." It's Chris's turn to sound unimpressed, but he twists around to hand Derek the pack anyway. There it is again—stifled quickly, but now that Derek knows what it is, the scent of desire is impossible to miss. He ignores it in favor of getting dressed. He's starving.

There's enough room on the storage container for both of them after Chris scoots over. "You didn't have to run off like that."

Derek shrugs. "Didn't want to get shot," he says through a mouthful of egg.

"I wasn't going to let them shoot you."

Derek glances over at him, considering. Now that he thinks about it, he does recall Chris's hand on her arm, pulling down her pistol. "Maybe next time I won't run off, then."

They eat in comfortable silence for awhile, too hungry to stop chewing long enough to speak. Derek finishes first and tells Chris about tracking Kate's scent. "It's rough terrain. We'll have to take it on foot."

"Not exactly." Chris sucks the last bit of salsa off one thumb and stands. He jerks his head over at a dusty-looking red motorcycle parked just a few feet away. "That's ours. Until we catch Kate, anyway. A little rickety—but it's off-road."

Derek can't drive a bike. He takes a moment to picture himself sitting behind Chris, holding onto his waist, and makes a face. "I'll just run."

"What, the entire way?"

Derek takes another moment to miss Laura's Camaro. "It's not a big deal." With five hours of sleep and a real meal in him, Derek feels ready for just about anything. "I'm fast, and I don't get tired easily in the full shift." He hasn't gotten tired in it even once yet, actually, and he'd love the chance to put it through its paces. He peels off his shirt and stuffs it in the pack. "I could outrun this hunk of junk _easily_."

"Really." Chris swings one leg over the bike and kickstarts the engine. He doesn't look away when Derek steps out of his pants, but he doesn't let his eyes wander off his face, either.

"Definitely." Derek raises his voice to be heard over the engine. "A werewolf could outrun a cheetah," he adds as he hands the pack back to Chris, "so trust me, this is _noth_ —"

The bike's engine revs, and Chris takes off down the road, leaving Derek in a cloud of dust. Derek stands there with his mouth open in outrage for a full four seconds—long enough to see Chris throw him a smirk back over his shoulder—before his brain catches up and he drops into his wolf form, bounding after Chris as fast as he can, flooded with a fierce and sudden joy.

A lifetime ago, Derek had five younger sisters and one older one, and on full moons they used to run through the preserve racing each other just like this. Laura and Derek were the oldest and fastest, and they always competed hard for the top spot, but since Laura could full-shift and Derek couldn't, she almost always won, and Derek was jealous of it for as long as she lived. The last run he had with his family, his pack, was before the fire. After, they lived in New York, where there was no room, and later still, when Derek had a new pack, there was no safety, and no time.

No one could ever, ever replace Derek's family, and he'll regret for the rest of his life that he and Laura will never get to run together as equals, both with all the speed and power the full shift provides. They'll never find out for sure which of them is faster. He'll never be able to tell her he finally did find an anchor even stronger than his anger, just like she always wanted.

But he can still run, because it's what she would have wanted for him. And, at least for now, he doesn't have to run alone.

Of course it's not the same as running with wolves. It's the middle of the day in the desert, not the night of a full moon in the preserve. And Chris is on a bike, an old one at that, one Derek was right to think he could easily outpace. He chooses not to: he likes letting Chris pull ahead now and then and surprising him when he catches up. It reminds him of sneaking glances at his sisters' glowing eyes through the trees. It hurts a little to remember, and it would hurt more if he wasn't in this form where sadness is so easily left behind him, but in spite of that, it's _fun_. Even Chris laughs when Derek exaggerates how much he has to slow down to let him catch up.

Maybe it's good for Chris too. Derek isn't sure he's ever seen him smile before, let alone laugh. He's definitely never seen him have fun.

Derek stops for real when they get back to the last place he caught Kate's scent. He paces a moment, lifting his face to the wind, and when he catches it again, he runs, and this time Chris is the one left behind eating dust.

They continue this way until midday, when they have to stop to eat a little of their rations and wait out the heat. They don't talk much, Derek almost afraid to break the spell of his good mood with words. Both of them doze on and off in the shade and quiet, but there is no fire here and Derek does not dream. Then when the heat is bearable again they return to their race through the hills, going northwest as far as Kate's scent will take them.

They make good time. Derek loses the scent sometimes, in places where she doubled back or crossed through a river, but between he and Chris they have no trouble tracking her—spotting a footprint here or a scuff mark there.

Chris was right about it being smart to stick together; they think the same. They were taught most of the same things, just two different sides of the same coin, and for better or worse, they both knew Kate. If one of them starts a thought, _maybe she went this way, maybe she tried that trick_ , the other can finish it.

And then, a few hours after sundown, when even Derek is ready for a break, they stop and (after Derek finds his pants) make camp. For a given definition of camp, that is—mostly it's just a fire next to another small cliff, because they don't have a tent or anything to sleep on but they're both too paranoid to leave their backs open. Derek doesn't mind it so much. He was all but homeless before he moved into the loft. He used to sleep in Laura's room at the old house, because it was the one least damaged by the fire, and he could see the sky through her broken window. Sometimes he was able to trick himself into thinking the sooty mattress he pulled onto the floor still smelled a little like her. And even that was downright ritzy compared to the train cars he had to live in after the Argents chased him out.

But he managed both times, and this isn't too much worse. The hardest part about sleeping here is Kate's scent still on the wind.

After they eat, Chris takes off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and gets out the first aid kit.

"You bust your stitches?" Derek asks, looking over with interest.

"Yyyeah," Chris says, blowing out the word in a sigh, and leans back against the wall. "Just a couple. Won't take me long to fix up." He peels his bandages off. It's a nasty wound—deep. It looks just as bad as it felt.

Watching him thread the needle, Derek is struck by impulse. He hesitates, thinking it over, then says: "Let me."

"You don't have to," Chris starts, but Derek says, "I want to," and when he moves to sit next to Chris, Chris hands him the needle.

Chris shouldn't have to stitch up a wound like this with no anesthetic. Derek braces himself, and when his fingertips touch Chris's skin, he begins taking the the pain.

"Peter did this?" he asks as he works.

"Mm." Chris takes a deep breath—probably not something he's been having an easy time with today, judging by the way Derek's ribcage feels right now. "Almost bled out for real this time." He chuckles a little. "Hurt like a son of a bitch on the way out. If I'd known it'd be this bad, I probably would have just stayed put."

Derek cracks a rueful smile. He remembers, vividly, the hour or so he spent pinned to the floor of his loft by an alpha werewolf; it felt a lot like this. He healed that wound in less than a day. "Why didn't you?" he asks. "Stay put, I mean. What kept you here?" Not that Chris ever gave Derek any indication that he was tired of being alive, but Derek knows perfectly well what it's like to lose your entire family. You don't walk out of that without wondering if you should be dead too.

If Chris finds the question insensitive, he doesn't show it. "I'm not sure. I guess..." He shrugs just one shoulder, careful not to interfere with Derek's stitching. "They needed me."

"I know a little something about that." Derek remembers thinking that getting out of bed the first morning after he lost his family was the hardest thing he ever did—until the next morning, and the one after that. The only thing that kept him putting one foot in front of the other was the knowledge that he had done this to Laura, too, not just himself, and he couldn't leave her more alone than she already was. He wouldn't have survived the first year after his family's death if he hadn't been so determined not to leave her. He still doesn't know where he found the strength to get back to his feet again after the indefinable time he spent on his knees weeping next to her body. Even then, it was still for her. It was for revenge.

A revenge Chris chose not to take on Derek, despite what happened with Victoria, despite even the chance he had to do it nice and clean in self-defense, when the nogitsune had Derek under thrall.

Derek finishes the last stitch and bandages the wound again. He gives himself a break from leeching the pain once it's secure, but he doesn't stop touching Chris, and when Chris meets his eyes, Derek doesn't look away.

Derek had a nice day today. He had fun. And it's been a really long time since the last time either of those happened. But now he's back where he was last night, the scent of Kate close enough to catch on the breeze and no sound out here but the crackling of the fire. He wants to end the first nice day he's had in awhile on a better note than that. He doesn't want to wake up tomorrow morning the way he woke up this one.

He—kind of wants to blow Chris again, actually. It was pretty good, the first time. It could probably get even better, if Chris can keep himself from asking so many dumb questions.

Derek searches Chris's face, thoughtful, trailing one hand lightly up his good side. His eyes flick down to Chris's mouth. Then he leans forward and kisses him.

Chris doesn't seem as sucker-punched by it as he was last night; this time he meets Derek halfway. He brings one hand up to cup Derek's face, thumb stroking lightly over Derek's cheekbone. Derek stops himself from breaking the kiss to turn into the touch, but he can't stop his eyes from falling shut or the soft noise he makes in the back of his throat. Derek leans closer, deepening the kiss, and breathes Chris in. He smells good: like a hard day's work and motorcycle exhaust and yeah, desire. He smells nothing like ash. Nothing like Kate.

Chris's skin is warm under Derek's palms. Derek slides them up his chest, cataloguing the motion of Chris's breath with his fingertips. He's just about to slide Chris's shirt back off his shoulders when Chris mutters against his lips, "Hang on."

Derek stills, waiting; so close he can feel his lashes brush over Chris's cheek. But Chris doesn't say anything, so Derek leans back a little to ask, "What?"

Chris looks troubled. "I wanna ask you something."

Ugh. "Seriously?"

"Why are you—" Chris struggles with it, brow furrowing. "What do you get out of this? What's the point?"

Derek has to close his eyes a moment. "What does everyone _else_ get out of doing it?" he counters, aiming for condescending and coming out with exasperated.

"Everyone else _gets off_." Chris is frowning. "Everyone but you. I don't understand it."

Derek pulls his hands away from Chris's chest. "Because it's none of your business."

Chris starts to speak, looking frustrated, and then checks himself. He takes a deep breath. "You're right," he says at length. "You're right, it's not my business." He won't look at Derek. "But I'm not asking to pry," he says, and Derek starts paying attention to his pulse. "I need to know this isn't—fucked up, Derek. That you're not just doing it to—I don't know, punish yourself, or get revenge, or any of the hundred other fucked up things it could be that I haven't even thought of yet." He meets Derek's eyes, defiant. "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, things I didn't come to understand were wrong until it was too late. But I won't let this be one of them."

Oh.

He's not lying, Derek would be able to tell that without having listened to his heart. He means it—really means it. Derek's been so preoccupied with making sure Chris didn't cross the lines he's laid that he didn't stop to wonder if he was crossing one himself. Maybe he does owe Chris an explanation.

Derek does not know how to explain this.

He thinks it over for a long moment. He appreciates that Chris waits without saying anything, now that he's made Derek understand. " _I'm_ fucked up, I guess?" Derek admits at last. "But this is okay." Chris raises his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced, and Derek sighs. "Some stuff I like to do. Some stuff I don't. I don't do anything I don't like to do."

"As simple as that?" Chris asks, skeptical.

Derek shrugs.

"So you really would just _prefer_ that I not—touch you."

"Not like that," Derek says. Maybe Chris can do that math and maybe he can't; Derek isn't giving him anything else. He clears his throat. "So we done with the third degree now, or do I have to answer twenty more questions and a riddle before I can blow you?"

It shocks a laugh out of Chris, just as intended. "By all means," he says, waving one hand, "if that's what you want to do."

It is, in fact, what Derek wants to do, even after Chris's mood-killing questions. "Don't let me trouble you any," he mutters, rolling his eyes, and shifts so he's close to Chris again. Close enough to kiss him.

What is Derek getting out of this? His teeth against the sensitive place behind Chris's ear, for starters. Chris's calloused fingertips on the back of his neck feel good without feeling invasive. The shudder that goes through him when Derek runs his hands up his back, bunching up his shirt. Maybe Derek doesn't find Chris particularly attractive over anyone else, and maybe he doesn't like to be touched, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the feeling of another person under his hands. It doesn't mean that he doesn't want to be close to someone—without it going bad on him after.

Maybe it is just a little fucked up. Derek's only criteria is someone who wants him and someone who's probably not going to turn on him after. He just wants it to be good more times than it's been bad, that's all, so he's got a lot of catching up to do. He has to believe it _can_ be good more times than it's been bad, even for him.

In lieu of a bed, Derek—feeling already this will become routine—yanks the pack over instead. This time when Derek pushes Chris's shirt back off his shoulders, Chris doesn't stop him, though Derek knows the night air must feel colder to him. He runs his hands up and down Chris's sides, briefly, to warm him, then presses one against his chest to get him to lie back.

Derek undoes Chris's fly, then props himself on one elbow to kiss him again, so their mouths are met when Derek gets his hand around Chris's cock and squeezes. Chris groans into Derek's mouth and arches up a little into his hand. That's what Derek wants—all he wants—the feeling of making someone else feel good. The little rush of power that comes with making them need his touch, getting to see them vulnerable. When it's the other way around—he doesn't like it—he can't be vulnerable around anyone, especially not like that. There's no one in the world he trusts that much and if there was they certainly wouldn't have the last name _Argent_. But, Derek thinks, maybe, if he's careful—he can have this much.

Derek breaks the kiss and sits up so he can move downward. He can feel Chris's eyes on him in the moment it takes him to get settled again between his legs; Derek's hard and he knows Chris saw. Nothing he's allowed to have, and nothing he'll have time to think about, after Derek gets his mouth around his cock.

"Shit," Chris breathes, head tipping back, and Derek feels Chris's fingers digging into his shoulders. He hums a little, gratified.

Out of the four people Derek's had sex with, he thinks Chris is probably by far the quietest. He swears or says Derek's name sometimes, and makes little choked-off noises when something feels good, but mostly he seems to show appreciation with his body language: the way he moves, the way he grabs at Derek and holds on when he's getting close. Derek likes it. It feels more sincere, and there's nothing Derek appreciates in a bed partner like a healthy dose of honesty.

He hasn't gotten Chris to say _please_ again yet.

Derek sucks a little, getting Chris wet, and pulls back enough to swipe his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head. He feels Chris's blunt fingers dragging through his hair, nonverbal praise—Derek sucks just the tip, and Chris's grip in his hair tightens, sharp and sudden.

"Shit—" Chris gasps. "Sorry."

Hmm. Derek pulls away with a wet _pop_. "You can pull," he decides. It was kind of nice. "Not too hard."

Chris's eyebrows go up, but Derek isn't waiting around to see more. "Warn me when you're close," he says, and ducks his head.

Chris might think he's being picky about not wanting to swallow—that's the conclusion Derek would reach, so he can't hold that against him—but the truth is he couldn't care less about that one way or another. When Chris does stop him (with another tug to his hair, which Derek enjoys), Derek moves back up his body, leaving a few open-mouthed kisses while he works Chris with his hand. He puts himself where he wants to be—kissing Chris.

Derek doesn't just want to see him come, he wants to feel it. Maybe kissing Chris isn't the angle anybody else would pick, but when they're kissing, Derek is so close to Chris's face he can't miss a single detail. He wrings a high noise out of Chris by keeping his pace just a little too slow that he gets to swallow; he gets to feel the stuttering of Chris's breath against his cheek. Chris says Derek's name against his lips, but Derek doesn't give. Then, finally, with Chris already rolling his hips up into Derek's fist, he says, voice cracked, "Please, please," and Derek lets him have it, speeds up and adds a little twist to his wrist that he remembers liking from a long time ago.

Chris doesn't seem to be able to kiss and come at the same time. He's got one arm looped over Derek's shoulders, the other hand tugging Derek's hair, pulling Derek as close as he can, just like last time. Their foreheads press together as he comes, and when it's over their eyes meet.

They're still and quiet for a short time, faces touching, watching each other while Chris's breathing evens out and his pulse slows back down. Chris's fingers make little circles in the back of Derek's neck.

Chris is vulnerable, in this moment, and Derek is not. He's not. They reek of sex and each other, and right now, Derek can't smell Kate. It's everything he wanted. It's perfect.

And Derek knows if he doesn't pull away right now he's going to spoil all of it, but he's still reluctant to go. He kind of wishes—but he does go, because that's the safest thing to do, and he's got to be careful. He knows he's walking on thin ice, fooling around with another Argent.

He's trying not to think about it too much.

The silence that follows isn't awkward, just thoughtful. Derek feels Chris watching him as he gets up and finds a half-comfortable spot elsewhere, a little further away from the fire, because he's still hard and his blood's still hot, and he needs to cool down.

"That's really it for you?" Chris asks. Derek isn't looking at him, but he can hear the shuffling sounds of Chris cleaning up, the zipping up of his pants. "You don't even—you know, do it yourself?"

Derek hasn't bothered with that in for a long time. He can't remember for sure, but he thinks the last time was definitely before Jennifer, probably even before he came back to Beacon Hills. "That's plenty, trust me." He suspects there's pity in that question— _really, that's all you get to have?_ —and he wants none of it. Sure, maybe sometimes he feels like he's missing out. Maybe he hopes one day he can go a little further with someone than he feels like he can go now. But that's Derek's business and no one else's. Derek had a nice day today, and a nice time just now, and he doesn't need anyone feeling sorry him, let alone Chris Argent.

He turns his head to look at Chris. "That gonna work for you?" He hopes Chris hears the question he's really asking: _Are we doing this? Is this going to be a thing now?_

Chris looks him over for a moment. "Yeah," he says at last. "Yeah, like I said before—if it works for you, it works for me."

He smiles, and Derek finds himself returning it, something loosening a little in his chest.

"I'll take first watch, hm?" Chris says. "I haven't had a chance to take inventory of the weapons the Calaveras' contacts gave us."

Derek sighs. "This is because I fell asleep last night, isn't it," he says, dry. "You know, those were extenuating circumstances. I died, remember?"

"Go to sleep, Derek." There's something like fondness in Chris's tone. "I've got it covered for a little while."

He's already undoing their pack, getting out guns. Considering the amount of times Chris has shot at him, the sight should make Derek uneasy. But the sound of clinking metal covers the crackling of the fire nicely, and when Derek remembers Chris yanking down the hunter's gun arm today he has a hard time finding his paranoia.

They're a thing now. Derek must be out of his mind.

But his eyelids are heavy, and his body is pleasantly tired and achy from a long day's run, so finally he relents. "Okay," he murmurs, and lies down on his side, back against the rock wall. He falls asleep still breathing in Chris's scent, watching his silhouette working in the dark, and this time, he does not dream.


	2. Part II

Kate's onto them.

Argent should have figured on that happening sooner or later; the truth is he's been spending half his mental energy trying to puzzle out Derek, which naturally led to the pair of them walking right into a trap.

Which makes this is _his fault_ , Argent thinks furiously, flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He should be better than this; he should be smarter.

Derek should not have had to save his life twice.

Argent saw the trip wire before he drove over it, but by then it was too late for braking to do much good. Derek must have seen it sooner, though, because he leapt between Argent and the guns set up in the branches of a few scrubby trees nearby, knocking him off the bike and to the ground, where they rolled for several feet before coming to a stop. Aside from being tackled by two hundred pounds of werewolf moving at top speed, Argent's completely unhurt. Derek, on the other hand...

Argent forces himself up to his elbows, coughing. "Derek?" He tries not to jostle his wound too much when he rolls over. It's difficult to see through the dust the spray of bullets kicked up, but he's able to make out the black shape of Derek's shifted form lying motionless ground a few yards away.

 _Don't be dead_ , Argent thinks blankly, ice flooding his veins. _Don't be dead._

Derek's not dead. He makes it to his feet before Argent does, then immediately staggers and falls over again.

Argent lets out a shuddering breath of relief. The only way to really put a werewolf down with bullets is with a round between the eyes. Anything they can get up after, they can live through.

By the time Argent makes it over to Derek the dust has mostly cleared, and Derek's back to his human form, unable to hold the shift when he's wounded.

"I'm okay," Derek rasps, which is always what he says when he's terribly hurt. It's what he said the last time this happened, with eighty-nine pieces of shrapnel and glass in his back. Argent picked those out of Derek himself, as quickly as he could before Derek's body healed over them and the EMTs saw. "She's not here," Derek says. "I'd be able to catch her scent, hear her heartbeat. She must have left hours ago."

Only hours behind Kate. That news isn't as welcome as Argent expected it to be. "How many slugs you got in you?"

Derek struggles to sit up. His face is streaked with dirt. "I think—just three." He shakes his head as if to clear it, dust and debris falling out of his hair. "Two in my right shoulder, one on my right side. No wolfsbane."

_"Let me ask you a question, Stiles: have you ever seen a rabid dog?"_

_"No. I could put it on my To-Do List if you just let me go."_

_"Well, I have. And the only thing I've ever been able to compare it to is seeing a friend of mine turn on a full moon."_

Argent drops to the ground next to Derek. "That's twice now, you know."

Derek waves a bloody hand, not meeting Argent's eyes. "I'll get over bullet wounds a lot quicker than you will."

"Derek. Hey." Argent touches his good shoulder lightly, so Derek will look at him. "I don't know if I ever said. Thank you."

Derek ducks his head a little, looking uncomfortable. "Just dig these out of me, and we'll call it even."

They're not even, though, and Argent makes a silent promise to himself that he's going to live long enough to return that favor someday. He gets out his pocketknife—it's a Swiss Army, it has tweezers—and gets to work.

_"Do you wanna know what happened?"_

_"Not really—no offense to your storytelling skills—"_

_"He tried to_ kill me _. And I was forced to put a_ bullet _—" Chris taps two fingers, rough, right between Stiles's eyes. "—in his head." That exact same spot: even wounded, even with shaking hands._

Derek is mostly silent when in pain, teeth gritted, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, but Argent remembers that animal yelp that left him when the bullets first struck. He's been shot before too; he knows how much it hurts. Though the bullets in Derek's shoulder aren't very deep and come out fairly easily, Argent isn't sure that he could be as still and quiet as Derek is right now.

"Last one," Argent murmurs, apologetic. This one, the one in Derek's side, has struck just below his ribs, and even without touching it Argent can tell it went deep. Derek spends so much time shirtless that Argent doesn't actually remember he's completely naked until he has to lean back to let him get to the wound properly, and draws one knee up to cover himself. For someone who spends so much time running around in various states of undress without half a care about who sees him, it's an oddly modest gesture—almost defensive.

_"The whole while that he lay there dying," Chris says, "he was still trying to claw his way towards me, still trying to kill me. Like it was the most important thing he could do with his last breath." And anything that dangerous—anything that out of control—_

Argent doesn't like that Derek hasn't looked at him once this entire time. Something about his manner right now is ringing alarm bells in Argent's head. "Hey. I'm gonna dig it out now, all right?" Derek nods, but doesn't speak. Something's not right. "Derek. Look at me."

Derek turns his head away, reluctant, then finally opens his eyes. They're glowing blue. "I'm okay," he says, and when he speaks Argent sees the flash of fangs.

"You're having trouble with the shift," Argent realizes. "Why?" He didn't have this problem when Argent was pulling shrapnel out of him. "Is it because you can go all the way now?"

Derek shakes his head, short and sharp. "This was a problem before that. When I started losing my power, I thought I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore." He opens his hands; his palms are bloody where he's been digging his claws in. Pain makes werewolves more human because the energy it takes to maintain the shift gets diverted into healing instead. Derek's pulse must still be racing, for him to be hurt this badly and still struggle with control. "The full shift helps," Derek says. "It's easy. It's just this that's hard." He sucks in a breath. "But I've got it. You can get the bullet."

Good common sense and a lifetime of training tells Argent he ought to back away from a naked and wounded werewolf who's having trouble keeping his bloodlust in check. There was a time when Derek's blue eyes and his lack of control together would have been a death sentence to Argent and his family, which must be why Derek tried to hide it. But Derek just saved Argent's life, _again_. Argent's willing to risk it.

"Let me know if you need a break," Argent says, and, as gently as he can, starts digging for the bullet.

_Chris slams his hands against the cabinet doors behind Stiles's head. "Did Scott try to kill you on the full moon?" he shouts. "Did you have to lock him up?"_

_"Yeah, I did!" says Stiles, just as furiously. "I had to handcuff him to a radiator, why? Would you prefer I locked him in the basement and burned the whole house down around him?"_

The bullet comes out with a disgusting squelch, dropping bloody and wet to the ground. "Done," says Argent, leaning back to give Derek space. "You all right?"

Derek nods but is otherwise silent, so Argent goes about picking up the pieces. He checks the area for more traps (none, so Argent takes down the guns to keep for himself), finds the motorcycle (still running), and finally finds the pack from where it had been thrown off when he started rolling. From this he fishes out Derek's clothes. By the time he gets back to Derek, his glowing eyes and fangs are gone.

"Thanks," Derek says. He accepts Argent's hand up and stumbles to his feet, dressing quickly.

They're both filthy and covered in blood, Argent has definitely popped his stitches again, and Derek's wounds will take hours to heal. With everything else they're carrying they can only fit enough food and water in the pack to last them about two or three days, the bike probably needs looking at, and on top of that, Argent needs to find somewhere to buy a helmet. Forget being shot; he could have busted his head open today, too.

"We need to find somewhere to spend the night," he decides.

 

* * *

 

Derek doesn't like it. He doesn't like stopping when they're this close to Kate, he doesn't like that she got the drop on them, and he definitely doesn't like Chris telling him what to do.

He likes least of all that Chris insist he rides, at least until they get to the next town.

"No."

"C'mon, you're wounded. You're gonna run with one leg full of holes?"

"I can walk it." Derek hesitates. He guesses it isn't really fair to make Chris walk it too. "You can go on ahead if you want."

Chris sighs. "I'm not leaving you behind. Who'd jump in front of all the bullets?"

Derek whips his head up—to find Chris is smiling. Reluctant, he cracks one too. "Just for a little while," he relents with a sigh. "Once I start healing I'm getting back off."

That's what Derek says, and it's absolutely what he means to do—but between getting shot at and the effort it took to fight down the shift while Chris was digging those bullets out him, he's exhausted. He gets on behind Chris with the intention of keeping an inch or so of space between them, but about five minutes into the drive he finds himself leaning his head against Chris's shoulder to shield his eyes from the setting sun, and he can't find it in him to move away again after. Chris is warm against the chill of the wind, and Derek's coming to associate his scent with safety. If it weren't for them speeding down the road, the roar of the engine and whipping wind, it's a little like holding him might be.

Derek didn't actually want to know what it might be like to hold him. That's not even close to what he wants from Chris, and the amount of _bad_ that idea is goes way beyond giving him head on the regular. The heart doesn't always listen to good sense, though—that's what his mother always said. It's better not to give it funny ideas.

Life is so strange. It's Derek's very first bike ride, and he spends most of it half-asleep, snuggled up next to an Argent.

They hit the next town about forty-five minutes later, when the sun has dipped completely below the horizon and the air has gotten colder. Derek shivers a little when he gets off the bike, already missing Chris's warmth and really wanting a hot shower. The worst part of healing is generating less body heat. Derek's not used to being cold.

Out of the two of them, Chris is the one with the least blood on him, so he uses the last of their water to clean his hands and goes inside to pay for the room.

"Get one with two beds," Derek calls after him, which of course means that when he sneaks in through the back ten minutes later he finds Chris in a room with a single bed, which is currently covered in weapons in the middle of being cleaned.

"This is all they had," Chris says, before Derek can even open his mouth. "This is cheaper, anyway, and we don't exactly have a lot of cash right now."

Typical. "Whatever," Derek sighs, "I'll just sleep in the full shift."

Chris gives Derek an exasperated look, like he's the one being difficult here. "We can share, Derek, it's not like—"

Derek shakes his head. Chris got him to budge on the bike, but this isn't negotiable. "If I—" He hesitates. "Wake up, in the middle of the night? I'm gonna claw your face off."

Chris falls silent. Yeah, Derek figured he wouldn't be able to argue with that. He held Braeden both times after they slept together, but only for as long as he could keep his eyes open; once he got too sleepy, he would move to the couch. He didn't want to hurt her, and he doesn't want to hurt Chris.

"What is it?" Chris asks finally. "If it's not your new form, why are _you_ suddenly having trouble controlling the shift?"

Derek sighs and drags his hand back through his hair. It's not an unfair question. "My anchor changed," he says at last. "After everything that happened with the alpha pack, and—Jennifer—anger, uh, stopped working as well. Sometimes it didn't work at all."

"You couldn't find it?"

Derek paces over to the window, leaning against it to look outside. The sky is still changing colors, and it's early enough yet that plenty of people are still out going about their business. There's faint music playing somewhere in the distance. "It wasn't there anymore," he says at last. He'd lost two of his betas, one to his own claws, his alpha power was gone, he had to take his only living sister back to another country because their home had become a place that hurt her to live, and found out killing Paige in the nemeton meant he was the indirect cause of even more death and suffering. The indirect cause of Jennifer's power—power she used to do terrible things, and not just to Derek. "I was too tired to be angry."

Derek looks over at Chris, who has paused entirely in weapons maintenance. "I know the feeling," he says at last, a little faint. "What'd you do?"

Derek shrugs his good shoulder, and looks away again. "There was someone I had a long talk with. She helped me find a better way. I'm just—still getting used to it. Sometimes it takes a little longer to get the shift under control." He looks down at his hands, clawless for now, but still with puncture wounds in the palms. "It was worth it, though." Derek's throat tightens a little, the way it always does when he thinks of his mother. "You know, when the kids sacrificed themselves, to find the nemeton? They had to have someone with them, to pull them back after they died, so they wouldn't stay that way."

"An anchor."

Derek nods. "I think, if my anchor had still been anger, I wouldn't have been able to come back. I think I would have stayed dead." Talia Hale has been dead the better part of a decade, and somehow she still keeps finding ways to look after him.

"What was it like?" Chris asks. "Dying."

Of all the questions Chris has been annoying Derek with lately, this is maybe the one he has the least right to ask—if there's anything that's Derek's business and no one else's, it's his own death. But just this once, Derek doesn't mind. He'd be curious, too. He spent a long time where Chris is right now, with no family and no hope, and for most of it he wished he was dead.

"A lot like blacking out," Derek says at last. "I wasn't scared, but I remember wishing I could stay. Then I lost consciousness, and..." He frowns. "You ever wake up from a dream, and you can't really remember what you were dreaming about, just the feeling it left you with? When I came to, I was fully shifted. And I—I don't remember anything that happened while I was out, but I just had this _feeling_ like...everything was going to be okay." Which doesn't make any sense at all; he didn't know if anybody he came with was still alive, if they found Scott or Kate. But he knew it in his bones, in the unshakable way he knows a new moon will always wax to full again. "It was the same feeling I get from the full shift. Like nothing bad can touch me. Content," Derek says slowly, tracing one finger over the punctures in his palm. "Peaceful."

The silence hangs for a moment. Derek looks over at Chris. He looks absolutely stricken. "Sounds nice," he says finally.

"Well, you should know it hurt, a lot," Derek warns, "right until the very last second, so don't go getting any dumb ideas." Derek is filthy and exhausted and tired of talking, so he steps away from the window. "I'm gonna grab a shower. You can have the bed—I'm gonna sleep full-shifted." Chris opens his mouth to protest, but Derek lifts a hand. "I want to try it," he says, "so you might as well not throw out your back. Just don't let room service in here, I'll give somebody a heart attack."

"If you say so."

Derek starts to step towards the bathroom, but the sight of Chris with all those guns makes him a little nervous, and for once, it's not for himself. "Hey." He waits for Chris to look at him. "Seriously. It wasn't dying that gave me that peace. It was my anchor."

Chris's expression goes a little soft. "You don't have to worry about that, Derek." He hesitates. "It sounds like one hell of an anchor. Do you mind if I ask what it is?"

One corner of Derek's mouth pulls up in a smile, and he ducks into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Derek isn't the only one who gets nightmares.

Tonight Argent dreams of Kate, sitting on the bed next to him in Allison's old bedroom. "I want to honor the code," she tells him sadly, "but I can't do this myself." She has the knife positioned over her heart, gripping it with white knuckles. "Chris," she pleads. "Help me." The full moon is coming. "I don't want to die alone."

Argent will do what's necessary. He puts his hands over hers, and looks up at her so he can see her real human face one last time.

There's a bullet hole gushing blood and brain matter, right between her glowing eyes; there's blood pouring down her chin. "Chris," she whispers again, terrified. "Help me!"

Argent wakes, then, but he doesn't thrash and cry out like Derek does. His entire body is locked up still, teeth gritted, throat closed to keep him silent; he's not even breathing. He has had many dreams like these, and he long ago learned how to avoid disturbing Victoria with them. It takes some work, but eventually he forces his body to drag in one ragged breath, then another. In a moment he can sit up, eyes tracking the darkened room; it always helps to remind himself of when and where he is.

The plates he and Derek ate dinner out of are stacked haphazardly on the little table next to the door. The first aid kit lies open next to the pack, both by the foot of the bed that Argent sleeps in alone. Derek redid his stitches after they both showered, and even took a little of his pain again as he did it, claiming his own wounds were practically healed already. Argent remembers the way he pressed his thumb into the pulse point of Argent's wrist. He said it was the best place to touch when you wanted to take the pain quickly.

Derek himself did sleep as the wolf, in a patch of moonlight in the space between the window and the bed. Argent rubs at his eyes and rolls onto his side to check on him. He's still there, sleeping peacefully, but he's reverted back to his human body, and he looks a little strange curled up on the floor without a stitch on him. There's just a touch of chill in the air, and it's doing wonders in waking Argent up, considering he slept in just his boxers, but he can't help but remember how shivery Derek was while his body poured all its energy into closing those bullet holes. Argent can still see shiny pink scars on Derek's shoulder through the dark. Not all the way finished healing, then: but very close.

Argent eases out of bed—he isn't ready to sleep again just yet—and tugs out one of the sheets. He's a hunter with decades of training behind him, and he's had to learn on pain of death to perfect the art of being silent, but Derek's got super senses, and his eyes open just as Argent drapes the sheet over him.

"What're you doing?" he mumbles, not quite awake enough to give Argent the full force of his usual suspicious look.

Argent flexes his fingers, a little embarrassed. Does this count as touching Derek while he's asleep? "Nothing," he says. "Go back to sleep, everything's fine."

Derek blinks a couple of times, and for a moment Argent thinks he really will drop back off, but instead he yawns and sits up, sheet pooling around his waist. "You get 'em too, huh." He doesn't seem very surprised.

Argent sits back down on the bed facing Derek, rubbing his forehead. "Mm."

"I didn't hear you wake up."

"You wouldn't."

Derek eyes him a moment, but he seems to have a better reign on his curiosity than Argent does. "Guess now I know I can't stay in the full shift all night," he sighs. "It was worth a try."

"You sleep okay, at least?" Argent asks. One of them might as well have.

"Like a baby," Derek says, sounding satisfied. He stretches a little, twisting this way and that to examine his wounds. "Scars'll be gone by morning," he says, approving. "I'll be able to run again."

Argent has spent a lot of time thinking of lycanthropy as a disease. That's what his family teaches, of course: it's a sickness, it gets into your blood and eats its way through you and makes you want nothing more than the next kill, leaving nothing of the person you were behind. But Derek was born a werewolf, and right now, the only thing Argent can think is how at home he looks in his own skin. The guy doesn't have a shred of modesty; over the past week Argent's probably seen him naked more than he's seen him clothed, and most regular people aren't even that comfortable with themselves. Whatever other skeletons are rattling around in Derek's closet, he truly loves being what he is. Seeing him with a gun was downright bizarre. Argent can't imagine him any other way than this.

And he's right about the peace. Argent didn't notice before now, but for most of the time he's known Derek, Derek's been nothing but defensive and angry. Sure, he still gets pissed sometimes and he's still slow to trust, but just around the time the nogitsune rolled into town, Derek became more eager to find solutions to problems that didn't involve killing; more likely to extend a hand than his claws. It's—kind of nice. And not just because he's marginally more cooperative. Argent knows it was the fire that made Derek like that. Maybe now he's going to get to become someone closer to who he might have been had it never happened, and good for him.

Derek looks up at him, frowning. Could he feel him looking? Or maybe Argent smells like wanting again; hell if he knows. "You're staring," Derek says.

Argent shakes himself a little. "Sorry. Guess I'm not as awake as I thought."

Derek gives Argent a once-over, his eyes catching for an extra moment on the place where Argent's abdomen is bandaged. "You should try to go back to sleep," he says. "You're gonna need to be awake tomorrow. We'll have to be careful to avoid more traps."

"Yeah." Argent doesn't move. It's foolish, he knows it is, but he's still on edge; it doesn't feel safe.

Derek gives him a long look, then glances down at the sheet covering him. His brow furrows. Another glance up at Argent, and then he's shifting around so that he's lying on the floor next to the bed instead of directly under the window. "Move over," he says, and Argent has to pull up his legs to make room, which means he winds up having to half-lie down after all. Derek settles next to him on the floor, lying back with his arms folded behind his head, the sheet still covering his lower half.

"You're gonna sleep like that?" Argent asks, and reluctantly goes ahead and gets comfortable himself, lying on his side with his head propped on one elbow so he can see Derek properly. "You're not gonna shift again?"

"No," Derek says. "I can sleep just about anywhere. You wouldn't believe the places I've had to hide out."

 _From you and your family_ , is the unspoken end of that sentence. Argent winces. "I probably wouldn't. We couldn't find most of them."

Derek ticks them off on his fingers. "The old house. Train cars. Homeless shelter. The sheriff's station. The animal clinic. Scott's room. Stiles's room. More abandoned buildings than you can count. And then for a week or two after they framed me for murder I just slept in Laura's car, I kept it parked behind the—"

Oh no. "That black Camaro you came to town in? That was Laura's?"

Derek sighs, wistful. "I don't think she drove it below 75 even once."

Argent blows out a sigh, falling back on the bed. "I had no idea. That was the first time you and I ever spoke, do you remember?" _Personally, I'm very protective of the things I love. That's something I learned from my family. And you don't have much of that these days, do you?_ He wishes now he could take those words back. "When I broke the window."

"When your _hired help_ broke the window," Derek corrects, not cutting Argent one bit of slack, "after, what—three of of you!—decided to come bully _me_ while I was just buying gas. You must have thought I was pretty tough if you needed that many to make it a fair fight."

There had never been any intention of making that a fair fight, they both know that. That was just a good old-fashioned threat. They only broke the window after Derek got mouthy. Argent walked away from that first encounter with a reluctant admiration of Derek's bravado; blocked in, and he had to know it would cost him, but he mouthed off anyway, and deliberately did it after his moment of anger passed so they'd know he had control.

Argent says, "If I had known it was Laura's car—"

"Don't give me that, you still would have broken it," Derek says. He's honest-to-God laughing: quietly, but he is. "You don't need to apologize twice; I already got your money."

Argent starts chuckling in spite of himself, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Jesus. You knew that was me?"

"It was in my mailbox the _day_ I moved into the loft," Derek says, incredulous. "Nobody in Beacon Hills knows everybody else's business like that except you and Stiles, and _he_ definitely didn't have five hundred in cash to stuff in some envelope with no return address marked _Auto Repairs_. I hope you didn't think you were being subtle."

Argent's really laughing now. "I did!" he says. "I was hoping you'd think maybe it was a mix-up or something, I don't know—"

"And I've inherited more money than _you'll_ ever lay eyes on," Derek says, "so I really needed that five hundred bucks, didn't I, for a window I had gotten replaced _four months ago_ —"

It's so stupid. If they don't quiet down, they're going to wake someone up.

"It's the gesture that counts," Argent argues, though he's shaking his head now. Derek's right. "It couldn't do much for the car, I know, but it felt like the right thing to do." He realizes, "It probably just pissed you off."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. "I gave it to the homeless shelter."

Argent pictures a younger Derek angrily shoving the envelope into some donation box and nearly loses it again. "You're right. Would've been less trouble to just apologize."

"Maybe not," Derek admits. "That probably would have pissed me off too."

Before—when his anchor was anger. Argent rolls onto his side to look down at Derek again. "I'm sorry," he says again, very seriously, "for breaking your window."

Derek shakes his head in disbelief. "Forgiven," he says, "forgotten, if you will go to _sleep_. We're up at dawn."

Oh, yeah. Argent blows out a sigh. He still doesn't exactly _want_ to sleep, but the dread and hypervigilance aren't hanging over him anymore, so he thinks he'll manage.

Derek did that on purpose, Argent realizes, made him lie down and chatted with him until he felt less like it would be dangerous to go to sleep. Argent won't thank him for it now; it would only undo the fragile camaraderie they've built if Derek got embarrassed. But it was a kind thing to do: a nice gesture. Argent's starting to suspect that a long time ago, before Kate burned it out of him, Derek Hale was kind.

As if to prove his point, Derek sits up on his elbows. "I didn't hear you earlier because I wasn't listening for it," he says. "I'll hear you now."

"I don't know about that," Argent murmurs, eyes on the ceiling. "I'm pretty quiet."

Derek lies back down. "We'll see."

Argent lets his eyes slip shut. "I guess we will."

 

* * *

 

Hunting Kate quickly settles into a routine for Derek and Chris, and the ease and comfort with which they go about tracking down the woman who burned his family alive would probably concern Derek if he cared to stop and think about it, but he doesn't care to, so it gets left alone.

They're up before dawn most mornings so they don't waste daylight eating breakfast, and once the sun comes up Derek gets to run. Since getting shot full of holes at that first tripwire, Derek has been very careful to keep an eye out for more. So far he's caught two, but neither of them have had wolfsbane, so they still don't know if Kate realizes it's Chris and Derek following her, and not the Calaveras.

Even in spite of their relative certainty they've got Kate's trail and the Calaveras don't, they seem to have made the wordless and unanimous decision not to check in with what they've found. The truth is the Calaveras aren't safe company for Derek—but even if they were, Derek would still rather take care of this himself. He wants to feel Kate go under his own claws, not only for revenge, but to know for sure it's over. Derek can't go back to living his life without knowing in his bones she's gone, because he'll always be waiting for the day she breaks down his door again and drags him back into his own personal hell.

Twice now Kate has managed to trick him with her steady heartbeat and her convincing smile. There won't be a third time.

When the sun is high and the heat becomes too much to bear, Derek and Chris seek out somewhere shady and eat lunch while they wait it out. Derek usually naps after; it's the fastest way to pass the time and a good recharge besides that. If do they make conversation, it's to talk shop, speculating about Kate's route and planning which way they're going next. Some days they narrow her lead down to mere hours; some others she manages to put more distance between them. They never see her. They get only her scent and her traps.

Tracking her after the sun goes down is harder, because Chris can't see even half as well as Derek does in the dark. They split the difference by planning their schedule around sunrise and leaving themselves eight hours to make camp, eat, and sleep. Since that first night in the motel, Chris has stopped insisting they do it in shifts. He seems to trust that Derek's senses will wake him if anyone or anything gets too close.

They have to hit a town every second or third night, and when they do, Derek sleeps in the full shift so he doesn't wake anyone with bad dreams. But when they don't—when they're out in the wilderness, and they're alone—

Derek would never admit it, but it's the best part of his day.

In the full shift, Derek can outrun anything, up to and including his own feelings. Grief, doubt, guilt; very little can reach him and anything that does can't gain enough traction to stay for long. And he stays shifted nearly all day while they're following Kate, save for the moments when he needs to be able to speak, so he doesn't have time to think about the memories her scent brings back to him, or the anxiety that comes with the knowledge that sooner or later he's going to see her again.

When he turns back at the end of the night, though, that's when the trouble starts. Derek can't tell if it's more like coming down from a high or crashing back to reality, but he can't stand it. Sometimes it's almost like he's literally, physically heavier with it: his limbs become dead weight, and the pressure in his chest often leaves him, inexplicably, halfway to tears. It doesn't get bad every night, or even most nights, but it gets bad often enough.

And then there's Chris.

Blowing Chris is something good in its own right, but even aside from that, on the bad nights it's all that keeps Derek from flying apart. There's nothing like getting someone else off to completely occupy you, and at the end of the day Derek falls into it with relief. It's something he can do and do well with his human body. Chris's scent has no particularly bad memories attached to it, and the closeness he gets from touching Chris makes Derek feel less alone. It just feels good; Derek may not get himself off after, but he likes being touched to a certain extent, and as long as nobody messes with it he kind of likes the feeling of being hard, too. The contentment he feels after is nothing like the euphoria of the full shift; it's just regular old afterglow, experienced second-hand.

Derek's chest is still humming with it as he kisses Chris for the last time of the night. Normally Derek stops touching him after he comes; he puts his cock away for him to very firmly communicate that they're done, and that's it. But tonight he tried swallowing, just for the hell of it—it wasn't too bad, feeling Chris jerk in his mouth was intimate and Derek liked that—but he likes kissing better, and he wants kissing to be the last thing he does before it's finished.

Derek didn't have a bad night, tonight. Which is its own kind of bad, because on nights when he doesn't start low, he winds up feeling optimistic. Derek's been very, very careful about not letting either of them want anything other than what they already do, because that's the only way he can justify doing it at all. Every time he touches Chris, there's a small frightened part of him that wants to shout, _what are you doing, don't you know that's dangerous, don't you know who this is?_ The rest of him, though, wants to—really does want to. And shouldn't that be the most important thing?

He can have this much, and he's not going to let it get out of hand. He's being _really careful_.

Derek usually lets Chris use the pack as a makeshift pillow, because he really can sleep comfortably anywhere. It's a big pack, though, to hold all those weapons—Chris actually straps it to the bike when they ride during the day—so tonight Derek lies down on its other side and props his head on it too. He and Chris aren't actually touching: despite their heads being close together, their bodies are going in two separate directions.

Chris turns a little to look at Derek. "You sleeping here?"

"No," Derek says to the sky. It's like holding Braeden: he can stay here as long as he stays awake. When he gets too drowsy, he'll go back to the regular five feet minimum he usually keeps between them when he sleeps. "It's just for a little while."

"And you kissed me after," Chris says. Derek can't read his tone. "If I didn't know better—"

Absolutely not. Derek cuts him off. "That's not funny, Chris."

"Argent," Chris corrects. It must be reflexive, because he stills after, like he's only just realized what he said.

Derek turns his head a little. "I'm not calling you Argent," he says, though he's more than glad for the subject change.

"You've _been_ calling me Argent," Chris says, "I don't see what the—"

"I have _not_ ," Derek says, affronted, turning his head all the way now. "Not since I started blowing you."

Chris turns his head all the way towards Derek too. "Sure you have," he says, though he's starting to sound less certain. "Haven't you?"

"I've been calling you Chris this entire time."

"That's the first time you've called me Chris in...I don't know, months. Maybe ever."

Can't be; Derek hasn't been thinking of him as Argent for awhile now. "Whatever," says Derek, "I just had your dick in my mouth, so now _you_ can suck it up and live with Chris."

Chris drags a hand down his face, embarrassed just like Derek wanted him to be. "Maybe you haven't been calling me anything at all?" he asks, voice muffled. "You could keep doing that."

Derek turns his face back to sky. "I don't see how it actually matters."

Chris sighs. "I guess it doesn't."

Derek's curious, but he forces himself not to ask. He waits, and lets the silence do the work for him.

"Most of the people who used to call me by my first name are dead," Chris says finally. "I'm the only Argent. So there's no need to differentiate between us."

 _There's still Kate_ , Derek doesn't say. Some days he feels like maybe there will always be Kate.

"The name is all I have left of them—what they used to be." Chris sounds suddenly very tired. "I'm the only one left," he says again. "It's up to me to uphold their legacy. Maybe that's why I stuck around—why I'm still here."

"Not much of a legacy if you ask me."

To Derek's surprise, Chris doesn't argue; he doesn't even get angry. "But I still have to."

Chris turns his head to look at Derek again, and waits. After a long moment, Derek turns his too. They'd be close enough to kiss if the angle wasn't all wrong.

Chris asks, "Why does it matter to _you_?"

Derek watches the shadows the fire casts flicker on his face and says, "You already know why." Then he gets back up. It's time to put space between them again.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, one of the evenings when they're staying in an actual motel and they've already laid down to sleep, Derek doesn't shift but instead says to Argent from his place on the floor, "You still wear your wedding ring."

Argent lifts his left hand to look at it. It's the only one; he had Victoria buried still wearing hers. "That bother you?"

Derek exhales. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do with it, Chris."

He's been calling Argent by his first name more often since their discussion. If Argent's being honest with himself, it rankles a little; he feels like he's being baited. "There must be a reason you brought it up," he says, twisting the ring around his finger. It's a nervous tic he picked up after Victoria's death. It was how he reminded himself that he had to be a good enough parent for two. No drinking, unnecessary risks, or reckless behavior—all the grief and guilt was compartmentalized for Allison's sake and packed neatly away into some dark place he couldn't reach again until after she left him too, just eight short months later. "What," he says, "are you trying to apologize?"

"I won't apologize for defending myself," Derek says. "Or for saving Scott. That was the right thing to do. For God's sake—he was sixteen. He never hurt anybody."

Argent remembers saying that same thing to Kate. He also remembers pointing a gun between Scott's eyes himself, not a week later. It was always his intention to scare Scott, not hurt him, but his own instinct to finish the kill surprised him. Allison watching might have been all that saved Scott's life.

"I'm used to fighting dirty because I'm used to fighting for my life," Derek continues. "Hunters rarely give you the luxury of playing fair. You have to use every advantage." He pauses. "I _wasn't_ used to being an alpha. I'd only had it about a month back then, and I'd never had to watch my fangs in a fight before." He looks over at Argent. "I am sorry for that. I'm sorry I couldn't find a way to get Scott and I out of there without using them."

Argent draws in a long breath, throat tight, but he doesn't cry. He hasn't wept in years. "Me too."

"She didn't have to end it," Derek says, and it's the regret in his tone that takes Argent by surprise. "I could've helped her." He makes a derisive sound. "Not that I was ever much help. I would've tried, at least."

"With a hunter?" Argent asks, skeptical.

"The bite made her my beta," Derek says. "I felt it when she died." And he must be telling the truth, for he brings his fist up to his sternum, and places it on his own body exactly where Argent helped her drive in the knife. "The bite is supposed to be a gift, and given with consent—it's _never_ to be used a weapon. That was my mistake." He sighs. "I wouldn't have been happy about it. But even for a hunter, even for an Argent: I would have _tried_."

Argent can't imagine it. He can't. His dignified wife with all her pride, turned into some snarling beast, locked up in chains like an animal once a month? No. He laughs, but it's a hollow sound. "I don't think she would have let you. She hated werewolves in a way I never did. Didn't even see them as people. She really would have rather died."

Derek sits all the way up. "What, and you don't think we're just a bunch of dumb animals?"

Argent frowns, rolling over to look at Derek. "Do you really think we'd be doing this if I did?" _This_ not being a thing they did tonight—for some reason Argent can't puzzle out, Derek won't blow him when they have a bed to do it on. "Come on, Derek."

Derek's expression is impossible to read in the dark, with the light from the window coming in behind him, but Argent gets the feeling his pulse is being listened to. "You can't seriously tell me _you_ never hated werewolves."

Argent's definitely being tested; he can tell by the way Derek is staring. He just doesn't know what the right answer is. The only thing he can do is be honest. "I hated the beast," he says slowly. "The monster, the out-of-control animal. The danger it represents. I thought of it as a sickness—a bad thing that happens to good people. But I never hated the people themselves. Not like Victoria."

"And what do you think now?"

"I—I don't know." Argent shrugs, bewildered, out of his depth. "Case-by-case basis? You're not bad company, I guess. Kinda grouchy."

Derek huffs out what might be a laugh, and his silhouette drops back onto the floor. "Fair enough."

Argent rolls onto his back again and closes his eyes, expecting to hear the sound of Derek shifting. It's silent.

Derek says at last, "If I had just been, I don't know—faster, stronger, smarter—"

Argent cuts him off. "You shouldn't have had to be," he says. "I appreciate what you're trying to say, Derek, but this one wasn't on you."

If anyone's going to take the blame, it would have to be Argent. He didn't know what she was doing the night she was bitten until Allison told him long after the fact. He was with her when she died and didn't stop her. No, he helped her: drove the knife right into her heart.

"She should've left Scott alone," he says, voice hushed. He turns his head to look Derek's direction. "We all should've left them both alone. You don't come across happiness too often in a life like this. Allison—" His throat closes. "Allison was right to try and grab on with both hands."

 

* * *

 

Derek has good nights and he has bad nights, and sometimes he has several of one or the other all in a row. Derek knows Chris can tell what kind of night it's going to be before it even begins by how monosyllabic his responses are as they make camp and eat—because Derek spends the bad ones near-silent, fighting with himself, but on good nights he'll kiss Chris after he finishes blowing him, and lie next to him on the pack for a little while before going to sleep. They never talk about the Calaveras or the search for Kate after they make camp, but they find other things to make conversation about: how things might be going back in Beacon Hills, stories from long enough ago that they no longer hurt to tell. One night Derek tells Chris about the auto repair shop he and Laura both worked in while they lived in New York and discovers Chris has a love of classic cars.

"Laura, too," Derek says. "I mean, I like cars all right, I picked up some stuff from her, enough to do most of my own repairs, but she was really the car person. She had this...1960s, I don't remember what year, it was a Mustang she was restoring, bit by bit. Champagne gold."

Chris lets out a low whistle. "Now _that's_ a machine. What happened to it?"

"Told the owner she could keep it when I left town," Derek says. "It really was more Laura's thing. She was picky, wouldn't drive anything that she could outrun. That was Laura," he sighs, "drove 25 over every speed limit, smoked like a chimney, and always looking for an excuse to pick a fight. She was _almost_ a worse alpha than I was."

"But great taste in cars," Chris says. "I used to have this black '67 Impala I liked to work with in my spare time. I've always wanted to restore one from scratch, but after I got married and we started moving around, it was too much trouble to lug around the extra vehicle with us—black cars are so hard to keep clean. I had to take up whittling instead." He holds up his left hand, where his wedding ring still rests, glinting in the firelight. "See that little line along my pointer? Nearly lopped the thing right off when I was carving a cowboy boot. It needed six stitches. Vicky was furious."

"You're kidding," Derek says, choking down a laugh. "I, uh, think beginners are supposed to start with an egg."

"A man doesn't sit on his porch and whittle an egg."

"I did," says Derek, "well, I sat on our roof, and I was still a kid. I got to animal statues eventually—then I helped my dad build the deck. You couldn't really see it after the fire," he adds, "and it's torn down now, but do you remember, right on the front of the house? We did that together one summer. The posts used to have little engravings in them."

That's one of the good nights; they talk so long they accidentally sleep in thirty minutes after sunrise. But the better the good nights are, the worse the bad ones get.

Derek knows, he _knows_ what it is, and if any other werewolf were with them they'd know too, they'd smell it on him from a mile away. Guilt, shame, anxiety: all the parts of him the nogitsune was able to use to get him to tie Chris to a chair and douse him in gasoline. _You're not my ally_ , Derek said then, _you're a hunter_ , and it's still true; no matter how much time he spends with Chris he knows what they're doing is wrong because it isn't safe to forget who he is.

Chris is easy to talk to and easy to share a silence with. He's unexpectedly funny every so often, and relaxed enough to laugh at himself when the situation calls for it. He's a good tracker, a great shot, and Derek trusts him to at least have his back in a fight. He's considerate; he never buys a meal without getting enough for Derek too, and he usually lets Derek have the first shower since he always takes the bed. He's a terrible liar, at least if you're a werewolf. Most importantly, he has never, not once in the three weeks they've been on Kate's trail, tried to get Derek off. He doesn't "accidentally" let his hands wander. He doesn't even bring it up and harp on it. Derek genuinely enjoys being in his company.

And he is a hunter, whose sister burned Derek's family alive.

He tries not to overthink it, and on good nights he doesn't. On bad nights there's always the sex.

Tonight Derek is eager to get his hands and his mouth on Chris, and no matter what kind of night he's having Chris is always receptive. He lets Derek unbutton his shirt and and slide his hands underneath, kissing him all the while, because you'd have to be dumber than Chris Argent not to pick up on what Derek's favorite part of this is. When he reaches up to put his hands in Derek's hair, something pops, and he winces.

"God, I'm _sore_ ," Chris complains. "All this sleeping on the ground. I'm too old to be roughing it."

It's not a request, but Derek reaches for his wrist anyway; presses his thumb into the pulse point. Then Derek is the sore one, but pain that mild dissipates before he can even really feel it. It's more than worth the noise of relief Chris makes in the back of his throat.

"Better?" Derek murmurs against his lips.

"Much."

Everything Derek's been struggling with sinks down to a place he doesn't have to look at right now. Chris rubs his fingers in a little circle on the back of Derek's neck, and Derek feels himself start to settle.

"That mean you want me to skip the rest?" Derek asks: flirting, a little, maybe dangerous in its own right, but he wants to ask, and there's no reason it has to be awkward. He waits, his hands resting on the button of Chris's fly.

They have a routine now: Derek asks, Chris gives the okay almost immediately, and Derek gets to the good stuff. Tonight's been a bad night, and so have the last three: two of those mornings, including this one, Derek woke himself up with bad dreams, and had to fight down the shift and his own racing pulse so he didn't accidentally wind up killing Chris. Tonight is the worst night to break routine, so of course it's tonight that Chris stills and doesn't answer him.

Derek draws back a little, eyebrows raised. "I was kidding, but if you're gonna pass out on me, old man..."

Chris searches his face. "That's not it."

Dread creeps up Derek's spine. "Then what is it?"

"You always find a way to ask," Chris murmurs. He starts rubbing the back of Derek's neck again. "You always wait for me to say yes. I kept trying to figure out why—"

Derek pulls his hands away. "That's what you do?" he replies, voice a little higher than he intended. "You don't just— _grope_ people, without making sure they're okay with it—"

"Yeah, but you ask _every time_." Chris's tone is uncharacteristically gentle. "That's pretty unusual, Derek."

Derek liked it better when he was confused and pissed off about it. He doesn't know how to deal with Chris Argent speaking to him gently. Something about it frightens him.

He knows less how to handle what Chris says next.

"It's because of Kate, isn't it?" Chris looks terribly serious; a little sad. "She didn't ask, did she."

Derek jerks back, away from Chris's hands. It's not even a question. All the stupid fucking questions Chris always asks him, and this one time he sounds like he already knows the answer. Derek didn't even realize Chris knew he was with Kate at all.

"I'm sorry," Chris says, "hey, forget it, I shouldn't have—" And he reaches for Derek—Derek leans away and says, "Don't touch me," and Chris doesn't, he _doesn't_ , he drops his hand, and something painful constricts in Derek's chest.

Maybe his heart, jackrabbiting against his ribs. Any faster and Derek's going to have to fight the shift again, right here and now; he can already hear the blood rushing in his ears. Derek's eyes drop to his hands, not to check for claws, but because he can't bear the expression on Chris's face. He opens his mouth: has no idea what to say.

He cannot give Chris this. He can't give anyone this. He has tried so hard to be careful and learn from his mistakes.

Derek takes one shuddery breath, and then another; the part of him that knows Chris is not only trustworthy but a good man fights with the part that must know better and he thinks, _Do not give him this. Shift and run if you have to, but you_ cannot _do this._

He says, at last, "No one has. No one's ever asked."

He hears an intake of breath, but his eyes are fixed on his own hands and he doesn't have to see whatever face Chris makes to go with it. "I thought," Chris says, unsteady, "you and Jennifer Blake—?"

"I don't remember that," Derek says. His hands are trembling on his lap. "Something to do with her power, I guess. I couldn't remember anything that happened after she kissed me that first time—just waking up in bed with her later, before she left." He's never told anyone this, not a soul; the secret died with her. "I didn't even remember that I didn't remember. Whenever my instincts tried to tell me something was wrong it slipped away. Like trying to hold water in your fingers." He closes his hands, carefully. "I don't even know how many times it happened." He tried very hard, after, to figure it up, and came to the conclusion that she couldn't have had more than a week or so with him before he learned what she was. But he doesn't _know_ —not how many times it happened, or what she did to him, or what he did to her, anything he said. He never will.

Derek swallows rapidly, squeezing his fists and relaxing them again. His heart is pounding in his throat, his stomach in knots. He wants to run, but he's already dug his grave: now that he's here, he might as well lie down in it. "So it's, uh, not like you're thinking," he says, voice hoarse. "Not with Kate either. It wasn't violent or anything. She didn't force me. I thought," he says slowly, "that I loved her. So if there was ever anything she wanted, that I didn't—I still wanted to please her, so it wasn't so hard to just hold still and wait until she was satisfied. She didn't force me," he says again—no point in Chris getting the wrong idea. "I let her."

"Jesus," says Chris. He sounds kind of choked up. Derek can't look at him.

"I didn't know any better," Derek says. "I was young, and stupid—she knew how to lie to me. And I gave her everything she wanted." His throat closes. "I just gave it to her."

It's quiet, except for the crackling of flames.

Finally, Chris asks, "Have you—have you ever, with anyone besides me and them?"

It's none of his business, it's none of his _business_ , where does he get off asking—but maybe he should know what he walked into. Let him decide for himself how fucked up this is: Derek sure as hell can't. "You know Braeden?" he asks. It was always good with Braeden, even if Derek always made sure to move first. "Twice. Like I do with you. And that's everything."

"Jesus," Chris says again. "Derek."

There is another long silence in which Derek remains still and dry-eyed. "Well?" he asks at last. He drags his eyes a little higher, to the fire—he can't quite yet bring himself to look Chris in the eyes. "All your questions answered? You feel better now?"

"No," says Chris. "No, I don't."

Derek breathes in, deep; this close, Chris's scent covers Kate's. He thinks of Chris jerking down the hunter's gun arm and his hand suspended mid-air when Derek told him _no_. Maybe a part of him wanted Chris to know. Now that he does, some of the fear is ebbing away, leaving a hollowness in its wake. It's done now: Derek can't pretend anymore that he hasn't made himself vulnerable, that he doesn't like Chris and hasn't let him in, that he wouldn't trust Chris if he asked for family secrets or worse. Whatever happens as a result, Derek will just have to endure.

"Derek, I'm so sorry," Chris whispers.

Derek jerks his head up to look at Chris at last. He looks stricken; almost wounded.

"About Kate," he says. "I don't know—where I was, or what I was doing—" He drags a hand down over his face. "Oh, God, that never should have happened. I never should have let her go so far."

Derek doesn't know what to do with his distress; he hasn't been much at offering comfort since Laura died. He does know what to do with the apology. "This one's not on you," he says, quiet: the same thing Chris told him only a week or so ago. "You had nothing to do with it. Compared to what she did to my family—it's nothing. Less than nothing. And the only one to blame for the fire is me."

"The one to blame is _Kate_ ," Chris says furiously. "Derek—" He reaches out: an impulse, just as quickly withdrawn. Good. "Can you tell me what you need?"

What Derek needs is to settle his thoughts and his racing heart, and the only two things that have worked for that lately are running and sex. Right now sex isn't an option. Derek feels too delicate; one wrong move and he'll fall to pieces.

"I'm going for a run," he says, and gets to his feet. He stumbles a little; his limbs have that dead-weight feeling again. "I'm fine," he says, automatic, as Chris reaches out to steady him and checks himself again, hand hanging in midair. "I just need to move. I'll be back before morning."

Chris drops his hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah—" Derek grabs the hem of his shirt. Normally he strips and then shifts; it's easier than trying to wiggle the wolf body out of human clothes. Right now he can't do it. "Yeah, just think of it as me taking first watch," he says, his tone very nearly normal again, "I'll be nearby, you can sleep."

"I'm gonna kill her," Chris says, a bit senselessly. "I swear to God I'm gonna put her down."

Derek gives him a hard smile. "No you aren't," he says, "I am. Why do you think I came?"

Then he drops into the full shift. It takes him only a moment to slip out of his clothes; in another, he's gone, bounding off into the dark.

 

* * *

 

Argent doesn't sleep well that night, but then, he's surprised he sleeps at all. He's used to the sound of Derek breathing closeby, used to the comedown after good sex to make it easier to drop off. Right now all he's got is the crackling of the fire, and thinking of Derek only reminds him of how well and truly fucked up their entire situation is.

_She didn't force me. I let her._

It makes him sick: physically nauseated. He wasn't sure what he was thinking—that maybe she was rough with Derek, or even overpowered him. But this is somehow worse.

Perhaps it's better that Derek left; Argent doesn't have to process this in front of him. His little sister, his Katie, grew up to be something truly monstrous. Something irredeemable. At some point in their lives—and when? how long ago was the fire?—she had done this to Derek, then turned around and come home like it was nothing. Spoken to Argent, perhaps, or called him, shot the shit about football or how his family was doing, like she wasn't doing something like that behind their backs. Like it was nothing at all.

Nothing, Derek said, compared to what she did to his family.

Argent isn't sure he agrees. He honestly didn't think it could get worse than burning a house full of children alive, but somehow it does. Somehow, with his family, it can always get worse.

He tosses and turns all night, and it doesn't have a thing to do with the hard ground or the cold air. When the alarm on his phone wakes him, the sun is just rising, throwing pink light and long shadows over the hills, and Derek is back just like he said he would be, sitting fully dressed near the dying embers of their fire.

"Were you awake all night?" Argent asks. He's exhausted, but he's grateful the night is over. He doesn't want to have to keep trying to sleep when there's so much on his mind.

"No," says Derek, and Argent doesn't need to be able to hear his pulse to tell he's lying. "I had my breakfast already, so whenever you're ready." He jerks his head north. "Trail heads up that way."

Argent checks their supply of food when he turns his phone off and puts it back in the pack. Of course there's none missing; if Derek had tried getting to it while the thing was under Argent's head he would have woken him up. Derek probably just wants to move. The way he talks about the full shift—that's probably a state of mind he needs right now. Hell, it's a state of mind Argent could use too.

Argent doesn't feel like eating either, but he's already pushing himself running around the desert when he's wounded this badly, so he forces himself to down breakfast before they go. He won't nag Derek about it; if the guy wants to run himself ragged to make his mind be quiet, Argent won't stop him. He's been there. Sometimes it's all you can do.

Breakfast might be subdued, but they return to the hunt with renewed vigor. Derek so he can run, Argent is sure—but Argent is finally ready to see his sister again. He isn't dreading the moment when he'll have to kill Kate because what he's thinking about is asking her: _How could you? Didn't you know better? What made you like this?_

What Argent really wants to ask is: if this—this evil, if it was in Kate all this time, what does that mean for him?

He's been willingly blind to so much of what his family's done. He let Gerard lock teenagers in his basement and torture them, send Allison down the path to becoming a killer; let Victoria walk out of the house with a wolfsbane nebulizer and let the Hale house burn to the ground without ever asking any of the right questions until it was too late. The memory of the day he almost killed Scott McCall used to make him uneasy. Now it terrifies him. Just what terrible things is he capable of?

Argent and Derek usually sleep when they have to stop in the afternoons, but today Derek chooses to sit instead of lie down, despite how exhausted he looks. He also puts his shirt on after he transforms when usually he only bothers with pants. And while they normally don't talk much around this time of day, right now the quiet feels like it could swallow them whole.

Argent doesn't know how to ask Derek if he's all right, or break the silence taking root between them. He watches Derek lean back against one of the tall rocks they're sitting under for shade, head tipped up, eyes open. Argent decides to sit under the rock across from him instead of sleeping; the least he can do is keep him company.

Derek sighs. "I can feel you staring."

"Sorry," Argent says, but doesn't look away.

"You can nap if you want to. I'll be nearby."

"You look like you could use it more than me."

"Mm." Derek closes his eyes, but only for a moment. "You know, one reason I don't talk about that is because I know people will start acting like this."

"Like what?" Argent asks, feeling a little defensive. He doesn't know how the hell a person's supposed to act, when somebody tells them something like that.

"You," Derek says, waving a hand, "you're way too quiet, you're looking at me differently—"

If anything, Argent's looking at himself differently. "You're being quiet too," he feels the need to point out.

Derek pulls his knees closer to his body. "You know what I mean. You're being different."

Okay: maybe he is. "Why tell me, then?"

Derek's eyes flick over and meet Argent's just for a second before skipping away again. "I don't know," he says. "You asked? No one's ever, uh, put that together like that before."

It's a good thing Argent's already sitting down. "No one else knows?"

"Only you," Derek says. "You and her."

It gets quiet again after that, so eventually Argent does try to sleep. He doesn't get even a few minutes, but Derek does—he dozes off over and over, only to jerk himself awake soon after. He really can, it seems, fall asleep anywhere.

Even though their phone batteries and supplies would likely last them another night in the wilderness, Argent makes the executive decision to start working their way towards a town. He doesn't think he can take another night of the silence without the white noise other human beings provide, and there's a chance Derek might actually be willing to sleep in a locked room where he can shift first. If Derek notices it's not quite necessary yet, he doesn't object.

Something has to give. Argent's not sure what the right answer is, here, but he has the rest of the day to think it over and he'll be goddamned if he gives up now. Maybe he can't go back and undo what Kate did, but he knows the longer he and Derek spent together on this, the quicker and easier Derek's smiles came. If nothing else, Derek deserves to have that much back.

They split up on reaching the town; Argent to find a place to stay and Derek to stay out of sight until he does, so as not to scare some regular person into shooting at him. He doesn't worry when Derek peels away; that's just the routine. He'll be back.

And then Argent has his answer.

He waits until they're checked in, until they can get inside a real room where it's just the two of them and the door has clicked closed behind them. Argent double-locks it, and watches the line of Derek's shoulders relax a little. Then he clears his throat.

"Here we go," Derek mutters, which does not inspire confidence; Argent hasn't exactly had time to rehearse this.

"I, uh—don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing here—" That much must be obvious, because Derek rolls his eyes. "But I'm not so sure what you're worried about. I'm not going to treat you any other way than I've been treating you. Next time you ask me if I want you to blow me, I'm still gonna say yes—you don't turn down head like you give without a really good reason."

Derek stares. Yeah, that was a little presumptuous on Argent's part.

"And I'm not—I'm not gonna turn into a serial killer." He can only hope, at this point. "Or start dabbling in human sacrifice. I don't plan on being another Kate or Jennifer for you—or for anybody else." He strokes over his beard. "I just don't think I could pull off those heels."

Derek puts his face in one hand. "Oh, my God." His shoulders are shaking. Is he—? "Chris," he says, incredulous, and Argent realizes he's laughing. "That's so stupid," he says, but doesn't stop. "That was such a dumb thing to say. It's not even funny."

He's still laughing, though. Argent shrugs, lifting his eyebrows.

Derek drags his hand down over his face and looks up, still smiling. "I give good head, huh?"

"Solid eight out of ten," Argent replies. Then he sobers. "Derek." Derek's smile fades, replaced by wariness. "I'm glad you told me," says Argent. He's glad Derek told _somebody_. "And we're gonna get her." It's the least patronizing reassurance he can come up with, and he doesn't stay on it long. "You want first shower?"

Because Derek always gets first shower, since Argent always gets the bed. That's their routine. If Derek doesn't want to be treated differently, what else can Argent do except keep treating him just the same?

But Derek doesn't want first shower: instead he decides, mercifully, to turn in early. When Argent enters the bathroom, he's by the window, fully dressed and human, and when he comes back out half an hour later, Derek is curled up in the full shift, finally fast asleep. Argent, who is nearly as exhausted, drops off as soon as he hits the bed.

Of course, Argent doesn't have the luxury of the full shift, and considering the places his mind has gone today, he probably should have expected the nightmares. He doesn't quite remember what he dreams about this time, though—because he wakes halfway through it, even before his body has had time to totally lock up, when the bed jolts beneath him. He gasps aloud, but it's better this way, without those awful few seconds where he can't even breathe.

"What," he says, and then feels the mattress sink under someone else's weight behind him. _Derek_ , his half-awake brain supplies, still in the shift but having very deliberately woken Argent up, at least part of the way. "Thanks," he mumbles, "thank you," but the exhaustion is heavy on him, and though they aren't touching he can feel that Derek's laid down on the other side of the bed. Having a werewolf at their back would probably make any other hunter nervous, but for Argent it eases the hypervigilance, and he's able to drop right back off to sleep without even having to wake up first.

When his alarm wakes him the next morning, he rolls over to find Derek is still there.

He's back in his human form, now, the way he always is when he wakes, and has dragged the sheet up from the floor to cover his lower half. He's got his head resting on his folded arms, facing Argent, and Argent can feel his body heat even through the blankets. His eyes are open.

"Hey," Argent says, surprised, turning over all the way to face him. He blinks a few times. "How long you been up?"

"Not long." Derek pauses, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Told you I'd hear you."

"Yeah," Argent says in wonder. "Yeah, you did." Of course he did. Something in Argent's chest goes a little soft—maybe it's the fact that Derek was still listening for it after everything else that happened, or the fact that he's here next to Argent in bed with tousled hair and a sleepy smile. Argent wants to do something nice for him, like the way he used to make Victoria breakfast in bed on their anniversary or bring Allison a milkshake when he picked her up from school on Fridays. Argent can't do any of that here, not for Derek, not so far from home, but he's been sleeping with him going on three weeks, and he'd have to be brain-dead not to know by now what Derek's favorite part of it is.

"Derek," he says, feeling clumsy: out of his depth. Derek always does this so smoothly, and Argent sorely lacks that sort of finesse. "Hey—can I kiss you?"

This close, Argent can't miss a detail of Derek's expression—the way his smile drops into something more unguarded, something surprised. Derek's throat works as he swallows, his eyes searching Argent's. Wordlessly, he nods.

Argent lifts one hand to cup Derek's face, and leans in slow. That's the way to kiss somebody this early in the morning: a little lazy, a little tender. He's missed it, so he draws this one out, brushing his thumb lightly over Derek's cheekbone, rubbing his other fingers into the warm skin below his ear. Their foreheads touch together lightly as they part.

"Thanks for waking me up," Argent murmurs.

The corner of Derek's mouth turns up again. "Anytime." He moves back, taking his warmth with him. "I'm gonna go shower. Won't be long."

"Yeah."

Argent watches Derek as he sits up. He watches Derek slip into the bathroom, without bothering to get dressed first. He hears the water turn on.

Then he rolls onto his back and sighs at the ceiling. "Ah, hell."


	3. Part III

Kate's trail leads them further north that day, the hills becoming steeper and less dusty, and more and more scrubby little plants begin poking themselves up through the dirt until waist-high underbrush becomes the new norm. Derek's visibility in the full shift is compromised, and they have to leave the bike behind a few times when they have to side-track to somewhere more remote, which means much slower progress. A few times Derek nearly loses her scent entirely.

"It'll pass," Derek says, stepping over the remains of an overturned log. Right now they're having to hike a pretty steep slope with no clear path or trail, and he's going first so he can cut away from of the worst of it with his claws. "I'm telling you, she's headed back to California. She keeps going north, we'll wind up in Arizona, and we'll have less of _this_." He punctuates the word with another swipe of his claws.

"What makes you so sure?" Chris asks from behind him. He's hiding it well, but the hike is rough on his wound. He was finally able to take the stitches out a week or so ago, which means Derek's stopped smelling blood every time he re-opened them, but pain has its own scent, and a wound that deep will probably ache on and off for the rest of his life. "For all we know," Chris says, "she picked this terrain to make it harder to follow."

"Homing instinct," Derek replies. He inhales. Kate's scent is very strong here. "If she can't go to La Iglesia and make more berserkers, she's gonna go home. Maybe she thinks it will give her the advantage over the Calaveras, but the truth is she's following her instincts."

"But Beacon Hills?" Chris says. He's falling behind a little. "She's always hated that town."

"It doesn't matter." Derek stops for a second to give them both a break. "For our kind, home is home. You can love it or hate it, but home is where you're safe. If you're being hunted, the instinct to get back to it is a powerful one." That was part of why it surprised him so much that Cora couldn't stay in Beacon Hills; it would have had to hurt a hell of a lot to be there. "Look at me: I had the means to stay anywhere I wanted when I came back from New York, and I still went right to the old house."

Chris has his hands on his knees. "We set up there looking for you," he says, frowning. "You never showed."

"Give me some credit," Derek says, incredulous. "I wasn't going to just walk in when I could hear and smell you from a half a mile off."

Chris stands up straight again. "Fair enough."

"It was also the first place I went when Kate turned me back into a teenager," Derek continues. "I didn't understand anything about what was happening, but I knew enough to go home. Kate's going to do the same thing. We could probably just save ourselves the trouble and take a plane to meet her there."

Chris is staring at him, suddenly very still.

"I was kidding," Derek says, lifting his eyebrows. "I'm not actually giving up the trail to go buy plane tickets."

Chris shakes himself. "Right," he says, and Derek, more out of habit than anything, starts paying attention to his pulse, but he can't hear anything unusual. "Hey," Chris says suddenly, squinting. He points. "You see that?"

Derek does: a black gap in the hillside, almost completely hidden by the undergrowth. He sets the pack down and motions for Chris to get out his pistol.

The underbrush makes it impossible for them to approach with any degree of quiet, but closer to the cave Derek sees much of it has already been hacked away at with someone's claws. His heart starts beating faster, and he knows his eyes flash because he can feel his fangs coming in. He lets them. He can't hear any heartbeats beside his and Chris's, but the scent is strong enough that he'd rather be careful.

He needn't have worried. The cave is dark and cool and clearly deserted; it's also shallow, and Derek can see all the way to the back. There are remains of a fire in the center, long gone cold, and one ratty blanket lying nearby.

Derek and Chris are well used to avoiding Kate's simple tripwire traps by now, and Derek is careful to watch his step as he enters. "Missed her," he says, letting out a breath. He isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed. "But the scent here is strong." He nods down at the blanket. This is what reeks of Kate. "She must have been here awhile, slept on that a few times." He steps inside, further, inhaling again. "I smell blood."

"Hers?"

Derek shakes his head. "Animal blood, I think. She must be hunting for food. Or maybe she's hooked on the kill." He takes one more breath. "There's something else, too, but it's faint, I can't tell..." He frowns down at the blanket; he thinks he can see bloodstains through the holes. "Check it out."

"Wait," Chris says sharply, but Derek's already pushed the blanket aside with his foot. A fraction of a second passes between that and Chris shoving him forward at the exact same time a funny clicking sound comes from the remains of the fire. Then there's a wet _thwack_ and a yell from behind Derek, and by the time he's able to whirl around Chris has stumbled back against the cave wall, clutching his neck.

"Shit," Chris hisses, and adds, "careful," as Derek approaches. There's a small sharpened stick poking out of the side of Chris's neck, the end stained with something green. "What is it?"

Derek sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Wolfsbane," he says in despair, finally close enough to recognize the scent now that it isn't being covered by the ash from the fire.

The worst thing about wolfsbane—and there are a lot of things to hate—is that there are dozens of species, and each of them does something different. Derek's seen it used, sometimes on him, as a paralytic, a poison, and a hallucinogen. Some kinds affect humans a lot, some just a little, and some don't bother them at all. And unless you've studied them extensively, it's almost impossible to tell which one is which when it's already in you. The only way to get it out is burn it.

Derek has no idea what this one is—he's only seen wolfsbane come in purple, blue, and yellow—but he's willing to bet it would have been bad for him. "I'm gonna take it out," he says, and Chris nods. His right hand finds Chris's left wrist, and he presses his thumb into the hollow of it, drawing away the pain. With his left he yanks out the makeshift dart as quickly and cleanly as he can.

Chris swears again as it comes out, but considering how much it hurts Derek's own neck, he doesn't think Chris feels it too much. "Here, get back," Derek says, pulling him closer to the entrance, "the last thing we want is to trip another one—"

After they get away from the fire, Derek hands the dart to Chris. "Do you know it?" he asks, trying to keep the anxiety out of his tone. A human isn't going to be able to have the wolfsbane burned out of them as easily as a wolf. "You shouldn't have _done_ that," he adds, suddenly furious, "I would have survived—"

Chris is looking down at the dart with disgust. "I wouldn't be so sure." He tosses it away. "Green wolfsbane. Mostly harmless to humans," he says, before Derek can ask, "but we're usually discouraged from using it because of what it does to you."

Chris isn't going to die. Derek closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a breath of relief. "Do I even want to know?"

"It triggers the shift," Chris says, rubbing his neck, "by means of raising your pulse." Derek listens to Chris's again—sure enough, his heart is already pounding. "It taps into the rage, the bloodlust. Makes you rabid. It's a kind of endless loop of feedback—the more your pulse raises, the worse the rage, and the more powerful the rage, the more it raises your pulse. Eventually even a werewolf's heart will just give out. The only reason to use it at all is that werewolves aren't capable of burning it out of themselves when they're in that state of mind. So it's a sure death for the werewolf—but a sure death for anyone else nearby, first."

Derek edges away from the dart on the ground. He can't imagine very many worse ways to go. "And what does it do to you?"

"A few hours of elevated heartrate," Chris answers. "Not pleasant, and not good for me, but I'll live. No supernatural power to exploit." He frowns down at the blanket. "Stay here. I'm going to cut the wire, I want to see what's under that."

Chris approaches the blanket and kneels down, getting out his pocket knife. Derek, wary, takes a few steps back—then hits a wall. He spins around, but there's only thin air behind him. He extends his hand, but it is rebuffed.

"Mountain ash," he murmurs. "She must have rigged it to arm itself when the wire was pulled. I didn't even know you could _do_ that." He turns his head to call over his shoulder, "Hey, Chris? You're gonna need to break this."

Chris is standing stock still, looking down at the floor. Sure enough, there were bloodstains under the blanket. But they aren't evidence of Kate's kills. They're words. Derek steps a little closer to see.

_GO HOME CHRIS_

A shiver of dread runs up Derek's spine. A blanket she saturated with her scent to specifically draw Derek here, wolfsbane that would condemn Derek to a slow and painful death but wouldn't hurt a human, mountain ash to seal the entrance for Derek but not Chris—it's clear what Kate hoped would happen here. Derek can imagine it: trapped in this tiny cave as the rage he'd worked so hard to free himself of burned him up, Chris helpless on the other side of the line.

"Well," Derek says, to break the silence. "I guess now we know she knows who's following her."

Chris's back is to him, so Derek can't see whatever expression he makes. "I'm not going home," he says, very quietly. "I'm not."

"Me either," Derek says, "so let's get the hell out of here. "

That seems to snap Chris out of it. He strides over to the mountain ash barrier and breaks it with his foot, allowing Derek to cross. Derek can't get out fast enough.

"She must have doubled back," Derek says. "The scent doesn't go anywhere except the direction we came from." The entire trip was a waste of time; it will take them most of the evening to hike back down. "You know, I should have killed Peter a lot sooner," he says bitterly, stalking over to the pack to pick it up. "Or let Scott kill him. Then none of this would be happening. No kanima if I wasn't the alpha, no alpha pack if Scott had stayed human, no Jennifer without the alpha pack, and no nogitsune without having to wake up the nemeton to deal with Jennifer—" And Meredith wouldn't have used Kate to orchestrate the break-in at the vault and the deadpool had she not heard Lydia scream Allison's death. Kate would still be what she is, but to Derek she would still be dead. That, Derek keeps his peace on. "Every single bad thing that happens in Beacon Hills winds up being Peter's fault in the end, have you noticed that?" Or Derek's.

"Wouldn't have worked," Chris says. He walks ahead of Derek, picking his way down the trail Derek made with his claws.

"Killing Peter? Couldn't have hurt." Derek's tempted to go ahead and kill him anyway once this is over.

"I mean Scott killing him." Chris clears his throat. "I've seen it happen—it's not a cure."

He could have _said_ something, Derek thinks, but he doesn't voice that thought aloud either because he already knows why Chris didn't: he had Allison with him that night, and as far as he knew one family member had already died. Derek wouldn't have gotten in the middle of something like that, either.

"It's probably for the best that you didn't let Scott do it," Chris says. "It could have—been bad."

The path widens out, and Derek jogs a little to catch up to him. "What do you mean?"

Chris lifts a branch for them to duck under. "Scott had trouble with the full moon back then, right?" he asks. "Can you imagine how much worse that would have been, if he had been a brand new werewolf with the power of an alpha? You'd have to worry about him killing people _and_ turning them."

Derek grimaces. Good point.

They wind up making better time back to the bike than expected, since the trail is downhill. There's still a couple of daylight hours left, so Derek straps the pack back to the bike and strips, determined not to start feeling self-conscious now. He can't exactly ask Chris not to treat him differently if he starts acting differently himself. Chris isn't even looking at him; he's swinging one leg over the bike, looking absolutely exhausted. Curious, Derek checks in on his pulse; it's still elevated. "Hey," he says, touching Chris's arm before he can kickstart the bike. "Do you need a few minutes? _Your_ heart isn't going to give out, is it?"

"It'll work its way out on its own in a few hours, I promise," Chris says. "No real danger."

"But you didn't know that when you pushed me."

"No," Chris agrees quietly. "But I owed you one—two, actually."

"That's not the same." Derek didn't truly risk his life either time. For all Chris knew he could have been taking a bullet, and humans don't walk away from those like werewolves do. Derek leans forward, resting his hands on the bike, scowling. "You don't owe me."

Chris huffs out a laugh. "You're welcome."

Derek wishes this day was already over—right now he reeks of Kate and wolfsbane and ash just like that little cave did, and he longs for the distraction sex provides. Between the motel stay last night and the—conversation, from the night before, it's been awhile since Derek was able to really touch Chris.

The day's not over. But Chris is here, and Derek wants a little human contact, and he's stopped trying to be so careful. Besides, Chris did just save his life. He could stand to show a little gratitude.

Derek leans in further and kisses Chris, humming a little into his mouth when one of Chris's hands comes up to card through his hair. The kiss breaks, and Derek meets Chris's eyes.

"Thank you," he says. " _Don't_ do it again."

Chris smiles a little, a touch of exhaustion having left his eyes, and says, "No promises."

 

* * *

 

Argent is beginning to suspect he may be in over his head.

There have been plenty of nights when Derek's on Argent almost as soon as they're getting settled for the night, but tonight is something else. They barely have enough time for Argent to get off the bike and Derek to pull on his sweats, then Derek's in his space, taking Argent's face in his hands and kissing him.

The green wolfsbane left Argent exhausted, but it's hard not to wake up a little with Derek this close, his heat against Argent's skin, his breath on Argent's neck. Argent's not a young man by any means, but it gets him going every time, the way Derek presses into him, how much he wants, almost like he _needs_.

And yet: Derek doesn't want to be touched.

 _What do you get out of this?_ Argent still doesn't know. He can't imagine spending three weeks blowing someone nearly every night and never wanting anything in return. He can't imagine having had the experiences Derek has had and still wanting to have any kind of sex at all.

"I can't believe," Derek says against Argent's mouth, "you gave me an _eight_." He pushes Argent back against a tree.

Argent laughs weakly. "Don't want you getting too full of yourself."

Derek murmurs, lips close to Argent's ear, "I bet I can change your mind."

Argent doesn't think he's ever going to get used to how subtly Derek gets his permission. All the times they've done this, and it's never awkward; it took Argent a long time to realize he was even doing it at all. Part of him, the part that can't force his mind away from all the ways this has gone unspeakably bad for Derek, that part wants to ask, _Are you sure?_ The rest of him knows better. Derek already said he doesn't do anything he doesn't like to do, and he wouldn't appreciate the question. "Knock yourself out."

Argent feels a little dizzy, all the sudden. Maybe it's leftover effects from the wolfsbane, or all his blood heading downstairs—no, Derek is draining his pain again. Argent can feel his thumb pressing into the hollow of his wrist, his lips near the puncture wound in his neck.

"You don't have to keep doing that," Argent mumbles. The wound from the dart isn't bad; it wasn't deep enough to cause real pain once it was out. And the one in his abdomen is healing, slowly but surely.

"I know." Derek's hand slides down a little further, then his palm is pressed to Argent's. He pulls back a little, meeting Argent's eyes, as he laces his fingers through Argent's and folds them closed.

Oh boy. Argent swallows—then folds his fingers closed, too.

For all Derek insisted he wanted Argent not to treat him any differently, he isn't making it very easy.

Derek smiles just like he knows he's throwing Argent off his game. Then drops to his knees, surprisingly graceful, and directs that hand to the back of his head. Argent's cock strains against his zipper, and he strokes his fingers over Derek's scalp, but doesn't pull—yet.

Derek draws his fingertips lightly over Argent's cock through his jeans before he actually gets around popping open the button of his pants. He tips his head up to look at Argent—then grabs the zipper between his _teeth_ to pull it down, smirking a little at whatever dumbstruck expression Argent just made, the way his hand just fisted in Derek's hair.

 _Show-off_ , Argent thinks, but his mouth's gone too dry to speak.

Derek tugs down Argent's clothes most of the way down his hips, nosing at the hollow of his hip, leaving wet open-mouthed kisses under his navel. " _Derek_ ," Argent says, hard enough it almost hurts, and Derek takes pity on him and kisses his way down Argent's cock.

Argent lets out a shuddery breath when he finally feels the wet heat of Derek around him, head tipping back. Derek's taking his time, drawing out the pulls of his mouth long and slow, and Argent rocks his hips into it, his back sliding down the tree a little. He puts his other hand on the tree and widens his stands to brace himself, though being mostly clothed does him few favors as far as mobility goes.

Someday, he wants to do this on a bed. Not that he knows what he'd do for Derek. Argent's only had a handful longterm lovers in his life, but he's used to getting to know them after awhile—what turns them on, what they like. Right now most of what Argent knows about Derek are all the things he doesn't.

Not that Argent's going to get tired of this, he thinks, not quite able to stop himself from rolling his hips up into Derek's mouth, but he wants to give back. He just doesn't know how.

Derek grabs Argent's hips to hold them still, swirling his tongue around him, swiping it over the slit. He's _strong_ —somehow in this moment Argent had forgotten. He groans, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. Now he pulls. "Derek, hey," he warns.

Usually Derek breaks away to kiss him here, but this time he doesn't: looks up at Argent through his lashes with heat in his eyes, and draws his hips closer.

Argent's done. He comes in Derek's mouth, head still tipped back, one hand still fisted in Derek's hair. He can feel Derek swallow around him—can feel Derek's eyes on his face the entire time.

Argent cards his hand through Derek's hair, panting as he comes down from it. "Get up here," he mumbles after a second, and pulls Derek to his feet to kiss him. Derek's not the first guy he's been with, so he's not delicate about where his mouth has been. Even if he was, this is Derek's favorite part, and the only thing Argent knows how to give him.

Derek lets out a soft noise into Argent's mouth—a rare but welcome occurrence—and loops one arm around the back of his neck. They're close: close enough Argent can feel Derek's hard like he always is, because it's pressed through his sweats against the bare skin of Argent's hip. He makes no move for friction, but he doesn't shy away from the touch either.

"Ten," Derek breathes between kisses. It's not a question.

"Ten," Argent agrees easily. He rubs his hands up and down Derek's bare sides, waiting, content enough to kiss Derek until he's had all he wants.

Except Derek's kisses don't slow down, or taper off, and he's still hard against Argent's hip. Derek always touches like he _needs_ , but this is unusual; Argent gets the feeling that he'd go off with something as simple as a thigh pressed between his legs. Argent holds still, of course—that's Derek's call to make, especially after all the fucked up things he's told Argent lately. There's a lot he doesn't understand about Derek, but most of all he doesn't understand how Derek can be hard, and this _close_ to him, and still not want anything. Except—

"Derek?" he murmurs, because Derek's not stopping. And as much as Argent wants to see what Derek looks like when he comes, he won't be able to live with himself if he doesn't make sure it's okay first. He says, cautiously, hands still lightly stroking Derek's sides, "Do you want...?"

Derek kisses Argent again, slow and long, before he finally breaks it. He rests his forehead briefly against Argent's before he pulls away. He's breathing a little rougher, pupils blown, and eyes a little wide: like he's surprised himself. "No," he breathes, though he doesn't sound very sure. Argent feels the familiar sensation of Derek reaching down to pull his clothes back in place, put away his cock. Derek licks his lips, blinks a few times. "No," he says again, firmer, and backs off entirely. He's still hard. "I'm—gonna get started on the fire."

Argent misses his warmth already. "All right," he says, perplexed. He watches Derek go, then experimentally pushes himself away from the tree. His knees still feel a little weak.

They finish the fire and eat, and Derek curls up his usual distance from Argent without lying on the pack a little while first tonight.

"You sure you wanna sleep all the way over there?" Argent asks, turning so they at least face each other. Derek insisted nothing change, but there have been a lot of firsts recently. Argent remembers when Derek wouldn't have been caught dead kissing him outside of sex.

"It's safer," Derek murmurs. He was quiet during dinner, sleepy and content almost like he'd had the thigh-shaking orgasm Argent did. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You don't scare me, Derek," Argent says. "I can take care of myself."

Derek pauses. "Not tonight," he says finally, which Argent supposes is progress. Towards what, he isn't certain. "I don't want to push our luck."

Argent isn't sure what he means by that. Maybe he's thinking of the green wolfsbane, the way it kills its target and everything around it. Argent is. Derek already struggles so much with whatever his anchor is now. If he'd been hit...

Then Argent remembers something Derek said earlier. "Derek."

"Hmm?"

Argent hesitates. "I want to ask you something. You don't have to answer."

Derek lets out a sigh through his nose, pulling a face. "Is it about Kate?"

It is about Kate. _Turned back into a teenager_ , he said, but all Scott's text said was that he'd been aged back to before the fire. The very night they'd split off to go their own way, Argent asked Derek when he met Kate. He wouldn't answer then. Maybe he'll answer now. "How'd you meet her?"

Derek rolls over onto his back to stare up at the sky. For a long while Argent thinks he isn't going to say anything. Then he replies, "School. She was subbing longterm in my English class."

Oh, shit. Argent _remembers_ that—Gerard wanting to put somebody in the school to look for more betas, to make a list of anyone they would have to keep an eye on as they grew older.

"The first time was about two, maybe three months before the fire," Derek says. "I was supposed to be getting extra credit for some classes I had to skip on the full moon." He lets out a derisive noise. "I actually thought I was going to be writing an essay or something, at least until she locked the door and pulled down the blinds."

Argent swallows, hard. "The year of the fire," he says unsteadily, struggling with the math, because he can't quite remember when that was. What year was Derek born? How old is he—in his twenties, right? "Two-thousand—five? Six?"

"Fifteen," Derek replies, very very quietly, "is the number you're after. I was fifteen. The fire happened on my sixteenth birthday."

Argent sits up, gut-punched with it, and a memory comes to him, vivid and unbidden: a lacrosse game from a lifetime ago, when he and Kate were still looking for Peter's second beta. Kate sitting between he and Allison on the bleachers, all of them crammed so close he could hear every word of their conversation despite the noise of the crowd.

"That one," Allison said, "that's Jackson."

"Holy hotness," Kate replied, and drew in a breath. "Ohh, if I was in high school again...maybe just the substitute teacher."

"You are _sick_ ," Allison said, and perhaps her laugh sounded just a little uncomfortable.

Kate's didn't.

He remembers shaking his head, thinking the joke was rather inappropriate, but ultimately harmless. He remembers because just a moment later Kate turned to him and asked, "Can you get turned by a scratch?"

"Jesus," Argent says aloud.

Derek turns all the way over, so his back is facing Argent, and warns flatly, "Don't start acting weird again."

"I'm not," Argent replies, automatic, but he doesn't know how he's supposed to—to _know_ this, what Kate was, what she really was, and just lie back down and go to sleep. He stares at Derek's back. How can Derek bear it—doing what he does with Argent of all people, or even doing it at all? Hell, they're both going to have the nightmares tonight, and then who's going to wake up who? "Why didn't you ever _tell_ anyone?" If he had known, back then—he would have put a stop to it. He _would_ have.

Derek sighs and turns back over. "No one asked until you," he says. "Before the fire I didn't realize there was anything to tell. After—I couldn't tell Laura what I did to her family. I couldn't tell anyone."

"Kate did that to your family," Argent says. "Not you."

"Yeah," Derek says quietly, "but I let her."

That's where he's wrong, of course. Derek didn't let her: Argent did.

 

* * *

 

They cross over into Arizona the next day, just like Derek knew they would. Derek's grateful for the flatter terrain again, mostly free of plants, and very free of people. Nothing's ever going to beat running on the preserve—and when he gets home taking his new form for a spin on the old grounds is the first thing he's doing—but he likes the desert for it an awful lot. He can see and hear for miles, and the sky is so big and so open. He'll miss it, when this is all over.

And it will be over soon: they're gaining on her. Kate's stopped trying to do all the little tricks that would make it harder to track her by scent: no more doubling back or hiking off to remote areas where people with normal endurance couldn't hope to reach her. She's making a beeline for Beacon Hills, whether she realizes it or not. They catch up to her in Tuscon, so close that a gas station attendant still on his shift can remember what Kate was wearing and what she bought—but after two days of playing cat-and-mouse with her she finally gets past them and shoots off westward again. They chase her all the way into southern California before they have to stop—in another motel, for the third night in a row.

Derek's been making it his policy not to blow Chris when they stay in a real establishment; some instinct told him to keep it secret, to do it only outside on the ground and keep it impersonal if he really had to do it at all. He guesses none of that really matters anymore. Whatever happens because of it, he trusts Chris; genuinely believes that when given a hard choice he'll do the right thing to the best of his ability. Sometimes Chris's idea of _the right thing_ is a little fucked, sure, but Derek has tried to kill at least two high schoolers in the name of the greater good, so he can't claim any moral high ground. Chris will get there eventually.

In the meantime, Derek's going to have to re-adjust the list of acceptable places to get Chris off. He misses it. And they're so close to Kate—who knows how more chances they'll have?

Derek doesn't deal well with change; he prefers to know where he stands. But he's used to it. There's been very little permanence in his life since Laura died.

"I gotta say," Chris says from the tiny bathroom connected to the one-bed he checked them into, "I don't think camping did us any favors." He's leaning on the sink, squinting at his reflection. He runs a hand over his beard. "You didn't tell me I was looking this rough."

Derek has absolutely no input on Chris's appearance; it doesn't make one bit of difference to him whether the guy shaves or not. That's just the way Derek is about people. They look the way they look and none of them give him that love-at-first-sight feeling all his teenage friends talk about no matter how they dress or what they do with their facial hair. He's pretty sure it's not normal; probably Kate broke something and that's why Derek doesn't work like he should. "There's probably a razor in there," he says, dropping the pack by the door.

There's a long pause. Derek glances up at Chris to see him smiling a little ruefully at his reflection. "Nah."

Derek remembers that he didn't start growing it out until after Allison died. He remembers because the first time he saw Chris after that his very first thought was that he looked like hell and smelled even worse—absolutely stank of grief and the after-traces of alcohol, like someone who recently quit drinking. Derek sympathized far more than he cared to admit at the time. Chris was a different person when his family was alive; maybe it shouldn't surprise Derek that he doesn't want to see that face in the mirror anymore.

Derek decides to change the subject. "It would be better if we were still camping. Kate's easier to hunt out there. Less places to hide." And Derek's so used to being in the wilderness without having to give much of a second thought to if anyone can see him shift or if he should really be running around naked that to have to hunt for her in cities is suddenly constricting.

"But I can read all the street signs again," Chris notes, a little cheer returning to his tone. "No more translating everything on my phone."

"Except you _don't_ do it on your phone," Derek complains, "you make me do it, because you can't be bothered to learn anything besides French."

Chris exits the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, watching Derek with his arms folded. "Pourquoi est ce que je devrais apprendre l'espagnol," he asks, looking almost fond, "quand tu est là?"

His French isn't bad, actually—Derek would give him a B+ for the effort. "Vas te faire," he replies, unimpressed.

Chris huffs out a laugh, but his smile turns wistful again, and Derek finds himself wondering what he's thinking about.

Derek looks at the door to the little balcony connected to their room. "You think if I slept outside I'd get animal control called on me?"

"You miss it that much?" Chris asks. "Didn't realize you were such an outdoorsy guy."

"There's something about it I'm definitely missing, yeah." Derek takes a few slow paces towards Chris, giving him a once-over. "Might not actually be the outdoors."

Chris chuckles. "I was wondering if we'd ever get around to doing it on a bed," he admits, and his hands settle on Derek's waist as Derek leans in and kisses him.

Derek missed this, too, but not as much. They've been kissing all this time—before they start traveling, when they stop to take a break. They kiss for kissing's sake, and Derek won't pretend he doesn't know what that means. That he's not setting himself up for a rough fall later. At least he sees this one coming. Until it does, he's going to keep letting himself have this for as long as he can.

"Hey," Chris says, between kisses. "Since we do have a bed, I was wondering—"

Derek's eyebrows are already lifting.

"Is there, uh—anything you like?" Chris asks. "That I could do for you?"

Derek frowns. Haven't they been over this? "I like blowing you."

Chris sighs. "I meant for you. You know, just because, uh—"

Derek almost _never_ hears this guy stammer unless he's talking about sex. It'd be flattering if it wasn't so annoying.

"Just because you've had some...bad experiences," Chris says, very very delicately, "you know, they're not always bad. They don't always have to be."

"Wow." Derek rolls his eyes. "What Very Special Episode did you get _that_ off of?" And why, _why_ , does he always bring this shit up when Derek would rather be sucking him off? "Here I've been thinking all this time that everyone else had sex to torture themselves. Thank you _so_ much for enlightening me."

Chris holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I'm just saying, if there's, uh—"

Derek closes his eyes briefly.

"—anything you wanted to try, any particular way you wanted to do things, it's on the table. That's all."

Chris looks so earnest. Something in Derek softens just a little. "I wouldn't hold your breath," he says finally. "It doesn't work."

Derek is getting used to that face Chris makes when he doesn't understand something. It's _almost_ funny.

"What do you mean it doesn't work?" Chris asks finally. He gestures vaguely at Derek's crotch. "I mean—I pretty clearly see _something_ working most of the time."

Ugh. "That's not what I'm talking about." Derek drops down on the bed, trying to decide if it's worth the trouble to attempt to explain this to Chris in a way he can understand when Derek barely understands it himself. He stares down at his hands. Probably not.

Chris sits next to him, leaning forward a little with his elbows on his knees so he can meet Derek's eyes. "Okay. What _are_ you talking about?"

Derek attempts to find his irritation from earlier, but it's gone now. Chris is trying. He's kind of bad at it, but he has good intentions. Not very many people have ever intended goodness towards Derek. Can't hurt to at least try to meet him halfway, Derek decides—which is not a choice he would have made when this thing started or even last week, but this is where he's at right now: spilling his guts to Chris Argent.

He looks up at Chris for a moment. "I mean it doesn't feel good." He drops his gaze again. "It actually usually feels the opposite. I just never know until I try, so I stopped trying." He shrugs. "Nothing you can do about it."

Chris clears his throat, obviously picking his words very carefully. "Does it—what, does it hurt?"

Oh, God, Derek is going to have to find a way to wipe this entire mortifying conversation from his memory later. "No," he says, determinedly not looking at Chris, "it just..." There's no satisfactory way to describe it. Sometimes his skin crawls, sometimes his gut clenches and his stomach knots up. Other times it's just that heaviness in his limbs or a hollow feeling in his chest. Even when he doesn't get all that, it's just not—interesting. He somehow gets hard without actually feeling turned on. "I guess it's just a mental block, or something," he says finally. "I just don't like it. It makes me feel—I don't know, dread." More than dread, sometimes, but Derek can't bring himself to say _shame_. "Like I'm out of control."

Control, which is so important for his kind; Derek hates that he can't control this. Sometimes it's like his body isn't even his, because it still belongs to Kate. She could always manipulate it however she pleased: most recently to age him backwards to one of the worst years of his life and steal his power, but before that she could use wolfsbane to force the shift or electricity to repress it, and—she always could get him up, too, whether he particularly wanted to be or not. She did it when she had him under the old house and decided to lick that stripe up his abdomen. It was just to intimidate him, sure, but it worked—after all, he couldn't do a thing to stop her, and he had no idea how far she was willing to take it if he didn't tell her what she wanted to know.

And Derek _hates_ it: whatever weakness in him that lets her do that to him, made him want to sit up and beg for someone like her. Derek doesn't know why he's _like_ this, if Kate really did break him somehow or if it was always in him, something ugly and needy and—and dysfunctional. He has a new anchor now, he cast away his rage and was reborn—but he doesn't know if that part of him came too, or if it died for good in the dust by La Iglesia, something too tainted to keep if he wanted to reach the full shift.

Derek hopes, bitterly, that it died. Whatever it is, he doesn't want it.

"Jesus," Chris says, breaking into Derek's thoughts. Derek risks a glance up at him. His horrified face is much less funny than his confused one, and Derek is getting sick of looking at it. "Derek—"

Derek lifts a hand. "Don't—look, I'm just telling you so you can stop assuming I don't know how jerking off works, okay? You just ought to know that last time it actually felt like it was supposed to for me was—" He wants to say _years ago_ , because that's how it's been for all of his adult life. But that's not true anymore. He's been thinking about it a lot, that night after the cave, even though he doesn't want to get his hopes up. It was working then. It was really working then.

Derek doesn't want to get Chris's hopes up, either, but he does want to be honest, so he bites the bullet. "The last time was three nights ago."

"After the cave," Chris says. "Yeah, I remember."

Of course he would; Derek was half-ready to get off right there against his hip. He still can't believe Chris actually stopped him. He—doesn't think many people would do that.

"Was it something I did?" Chris asks. "I could...do it again?"

"You're asking me?" Derek lets out a half-hearted laugh and drags a hand down his face. God, he's a mess. He's a fucking disaster.

But he looks up at Chris, and and for the first time in a long time he's not thinking _out of the question_. He's thinking _maybe_.

And he tells Chris, "I'll think about it."

 

* * *

 

They eat and shower first, but they do eventually get around to doing it in the bed.

Derek's sweet about it. For some reason Argent wasn't expecting that, despite how he's always doing little things like putting Argent away after they're done. But Derek's always so desperate. Even when the sex isn't rough it's always _fast_ , like whatever Derek's getting out of it he needs it _now_. It suckerpunches Argent a little when, now that they finally have somewhere comfortable to lie, Derek slows down and takes his time.

Derek keeps his pants on—no surprise there, sex is about the only time he does—but Argent's clothes wind up on the floor, where Derek won't be able to just shift them back into place later. The light here is better than that of a campfire—Argent doesn't guess Derek misses _those_ much—and once his shirt is gone Derek sets about kissing his body: mapping out his many scars. He doesn't ask what they are so much as guess, and he's always right.

"Bullet wound," he says, over a puckered place near Argent's shoulder; adds "stab wound," over a raised white line in his side. "Piece of rebar," he murmurs, over the place Peter struck Argent through the ribs with it, and smiles. Maybe because he had to restitch it himself so many times; maybe because it's finally healing. "You get the shit kicked out you a lot, don't you?"

Argent chuckles. "Yeah."

Derek dips a little lower and finds a barely-noticeable scar on Argent's hip, a dark spot that's just a little indented. "Hmm." He strokes a thumb over it thoughtfully, presses it into Argent's skin. His other fingers then naturally come to rest on four identical marks further back on Argent's side. "Something with claws."

Argent stills for a moment. Then he pulls Derek back up to kiss him again. "Werewolf."

Maybe Argent shouldn't be so surprised. Fast or slow, Derek's always been an attentive lover.

Derek doesn't leave after it's over. He lies half on top of Argent, kissing him, one of Argent's thighs pressed between his legs. Argent hasn't kissed for kissing's sake like he does with Derek since he was maybe nineteen or so, so it's still a little novel to lie there and just make out.

"Hey." Argent isn't going to move his thigh, but he can feel that Derek's hard against him. "You wanna give it a try?"

Derek's eyes don't leave his. "Still thinking about it."

Argent absently rubs his fingers over the back of Derek's neck. "But it's working?"

Derek's laugh is a little anxious, mostly incredulous. "Yeah."

Argent trails his fingers forward, running over the line of Derek's jaw. "So what changed?" he asks. "What am I doing right?"

Derek turns his face into Argent's hand, quiet as he thinks it over. They share that silence for awhile, Derek going soft against Argent's thigh, Argent's eyelids growing heavy. Then Derek pulls away and sits up.

"Where you goin'?" Argent asks.

"To sleep."

"Ah, come on." Argent reaches for him, blinking heavily, and lets the backs of his fingers brush over Derek's arm. "You don't have to. Don't you get tired of sleeping on the floor like an animal?"

"When I sleep on the floor I _am_ an animal," Derek reminds him, but something in his expression is amused, almost fond. "That's kind of the point."

"Well, you're a person now," Argent says, and his jaw cracks when he yawns. "I've got good reflexes, Derek. You're not gonna get one over on me."

Derek's smile is slow and honest. "Better be careful," he sighs, but he's already lying back down, getting under the blankets. "I might take it as a challenge."

He hesitates at first, and then to Argent's surprise gingerly settles with his head on Argent's shoulder, his arm slipped around Argent's waist—and his hand, perhaps unconsciously, finding those scars in Argent's hip again. Argent wraps one arm around Derek, an automatic impulse. "Okay?" he asks, thumb stroking the skin of Derek's shoulder.

"Okay," Derek agrees, and Argent feels him begin to relax inch by inch. He's heavy and warm, and Argent's eyes fall shut in contentment. It's been a long, long time since he held anyone. He missed it.

Then: "That morning, when you wanted to kiss me," Derek says slowly. "You asked."

 

* * *

 

But for all Derek worried over it, he's not the one who has nightmares—not tonight.

Derek wakes to a choked off inhale near his face. For a split second he doesn't remember falling asleep with Chris, he thinks he's being attacked—but Chris gasps again, shallow, hands clenching and unclenching, and Derek knows the nightmare for what it is.

Chris doesn't get them as often as Derek does. This is only the third time that Derek knows about since they began sleeping together, and he found out about the first one after the fact. When Laura got them after the fire she would scream and snarl and thrash herself awake and it would take all of Derek's strength to hold her down. Derek is the same way. But Chris is so quiet Derek has trouble hearing it even with his super senses, and the way his body locks up to stop him even from breathing is downright alarming.

"Hey." Derek shakes him, trying to wake Chris before he wakes himself. "Chris, hey, wake up."

Chris does jerk awake, eyes wide, yanking back from Derek like he can't quite remember falling asleep with him either. "R—?" he chokes, but when he tries to suck in a breath there's no sound, even though Derek sees his chest heave.

"Hey, hey," Derek says again. He hasn't spoken this way since Laura died, with the hushed gentle tone you use to soothe frightened things. He can't believe it comes back to him so easily. He presses a hand into Chris's chest, and doesn't need his super hearing to know his heart is hammering against his ribs. "Come on, breathe. You're okay. You're okay."

Chris manages to gasp, and that seems to at least get him breathing again. "Thanks," he rasps. With a trembling hand he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Damn, y—you've got good hearing."

Derek wonders just what Chris dreams about. The content of Derek's nightmares must be obvious to anyone who knows his history; he and Laura both dreamt of the fire for all the years they lived in New York. But he couldn't begin to guess at Chris's. His family? The things he's killed? It's the only time Derek's ever seen him look frightened, and tonight seems worse than last time.

Unlike Chris, though, Derek keeps his mouth shut when he has stupid questions. "You okay?" Chris nods, wordless, but he doesn't look okay, and his heart's still racing. Derek thinks a second. "Wanna know what my anchor is?"

Chris looks up at him, startled out of whatever he's thinking about. "You don't have to."

Derek shrugs. It—wouldn't be a big deal to him, to tell Chris now. Maybe it would even help him to hear it. At the very least, the story of talking to his dead mother ought to fully capture anyone's attention. "You know how I met the Calaveras?"

"I—" Chris blinks, surprised. "I don't, actually."

"They had something that didn't belong to them," Derek said. "It's part of why I left Beacon Hills after the alpha pack and Jennifer were gone. To take Cora to South America—and to get them back. And—" Derek hesitates. This next part isn't so easy to tell. "I got low. After what happened with Jennifer, and Boyd, and Erica, losing my power, losing Cora—it was bad." Worse than it was even after the fire; at least the fire left him with Laura, and they bore that pain together. "I told you: I couldn't find my anger anymore. So I needed to know how to get it back," he says. "I needed to talk to my mother."

"But Derek—" Chris frowns. "She's _gone_."

Derek pulls his hand away from Chris's chest so he can flick out his claws. "That thing we do, where we can share memories or erase them..." He meets Chris's eyes. "Don't you remember when I showed you my mother's claws?" It's not likely he'd forget—Derek did tie him to a chair and threaten to light him on fire after. "I don't know about a life after this one, spirits and ghosts—but her personality, her memories: everything she was is still left in them. It was risky, and a hell of a long shot—but I had to try."

Chris searches Derek's face, totally rapt; whatever he was dreaming out, he's not thinking of it now. "And it worked? You really spoke with her?"

"Mm." Derek takes a slow breath. "I told her everything. The truth about the fire and Kate, about being an alpha, about what killing Paige in the nemeton's root cellar allowed to happen. She forgave me," he says in wonder, and his throat closes.

Chris lays a hand on his shoulder. After a long moment Derek masters himself enough to continue.

"She, ah—she said my anchor, the one Peter gave me—it had been like poison." Derek swallows hard. "She was right. I killed Peter in anger and nothing good came out of it; he didn't even stay dead. I tried killing the kanima without caring about the person it was attached to, and Scott wouldn't trust me, and neither would Erica and Boyd, not when it mattered, and that cost Erica her life. All the fights I've gotten into, almost every bad choice I've ever made, especially the ones where people got hurt—I didn't need that back."

Chris rubs lightly at the back of Derek's shoulder with his fingertips. "So what'd you do?"

Derek flexes the fingers of his hand with the claws still out, and with a thought retracts them. "When we were talking," he says, "I told her how everyone I cared about, everyone who cared about me—they all kept dying, and it was usually my fault. And I said I didn't know why I was still here if all I did was cause suffering." Derek never seriously considered taking his own life after the fire because of what it would do to Laura. After Jennifer he came much, much closer. "She knew why. And she told me. And that's my anchor: my purpose."

"Which is?"

"My family," says Derek, "didn't just live in Beacon Hills. They protected it and all the people in it. And I'm the last one, the only Hale still here who isn't crazy. So it's _my_ job now: to protect anyone who can't protect themselves."

Chris drops his hand. He looks stunned, like Derek's just struck him in the face. "What did you say?"

Derek frowns. "My anchor," he repeats. "I'm here to protect people—not hurt them. I'm a predator, but I don't have to be a killer."

"But the way you said it—" Chris blinks rapidly. "There was something Allison said to me," he whispers, and Derek's heart sinks, "a couple of months before she died. She wanted to learn everything I could teach her, but she told me we were going to have a new code." His eyes are very far away now. "Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger leurs-même."

Now Derek's the one who feels like he's been punched in the face. "She said that?"

"It was ours," Chris says, devastated. "How did I forget?" He covers his mouth with one hand. "Oh, sweetheart." He's breathing hard, almost like sobs, but he isn't crying. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Derek lays a hand on his arm: a poor comfort, but he wants to try. He has a question now, and he thinks this one's worth asking. "You haven't cried since she died—have you?"

Chris meets his eyes, then looks away, shaken. "N—no."

Derek is beginning to suspect the worst. "Since Victoria? Since Kate?"

Chris shakes his head. "Longer. Twenty years at least."

It's Derek's turn to be horrified. He can't imagine losing as many people as Chris has and not crying about it. He and Laura wept almost nonstop for the first weeks after the fire, clinging together during the nights to help shore up each other's pain. If he had had to carry all that inside him, he really would have died. "Might help," he says, very quietly.

"I don't—" Chris starts, helpless. "I don't think I remember how."

Derek didn't want Chris's pity, so he tries not to pity Chris, either. "That's pretty fucked up."

Chris's smile is hard and rueful and does not reach his eyes. "My family wasn't very tolerant of weakness."

Derek's mother always liked that saying about how crying wasn't weakness, but a sign you were alive. She always said there was a certain bravery in vulnerability. He forgot about it until he spoke with her again, and even after that he didn't think of himself as very brave.

He doesn't think it would help Chris to hear. It's clear, after all, that to an Argent, weakness and vulnerability are the same thing.

"For better or worse," Derek says finally, "your family's not here now. If you think you can—you should. It helps. I'd know."

This time when Chris smiles, it's a little more genuine. "I'll think about it."

 

* * *

 

They make it halfway up California the next day. Derek only spends about an hour trying to run it before he has to signal to Argent to find an exit ramp.

Argent pulls over behind a secluded-looking gas station and gets out Derek's clothes, and after a moment Derek catches up and shifts back to his human form, dressing as quickly as he can.

"It's not gonna work," he says. "I can't keep track of her scent and where you are and worry about hiding from people on the freeway at the same time." He looks around and scowls at a camera mounted by the door—thankfully, not pointed in their direction. "It's different ground now," he says. "Densely populated means less shifting."

"I'll be able to work longer at night," Argent points out. "Light pollution is plenty enough for me to see with." He eyes the camera, thoughtful. "We should see about security footage. There's cameras everywhere these days. She'll wind up on one eventually."

"In the meantime," Derek says, and swings a leg over the bike to get on behind Argent, "I'm a little tired of running." He doesn't try to keep the same space between them he did the last time, but presses himself warm against Argent's back, his arms wrapped comfortably around Argent's waist. "I think it's about time you gave me a lift."

Argent smiles. "You think you can still track her without the full shift?"

"I've never needed that form to use my sense of smell. Just to avoid sharing a bike with people I don't like."

Argent lets out a laugh. "Does that mean you like me now?"

" _Drive_ ," Derek tells him forcefully, so Argent does, but he doesn't miss the way that Derek rests his chin on Argent's shoulder, the way he can feel Derek's smile curve against his neck.

They lose Kate again in a reasonably size city halfway up the state of California. Derek pulls them off the road just a little after lunchtime, but her scent disappears at a gas station, covered, Derek says, by too many other things to figure out where she went from there. Though they cover all the major paths in and out of town and check every security camera they can get their hands on, there's no sign of her. Derek even full shifts again after night falls—it doesn't help. She's gone.

It's past midnight when they finally check into a motel. Argent wanted to keep looking, but Derek isn't as worried. "We'll go north tomorrow," he says. "We're less than a day from Beacon Hills. I know that's where she's going, and I know that territory. We'll find the trail again."

"I'm glad you think so," Argent says tightly.

"I know so," Derek corrects, unlocking their room door and flipping on the lights. "There's no point in running ourselves into the ground here."

Argent starts getting undressed. "If we've lost Kate—"

"Oh, we haven't lost her," Derek says, grim. "She's never getting rid of me."

Argent's fingers pause midway through undoing a button of his shirt. It's Derek's tone that makes him believe, more than anything else. Derek's going to be snapping at Kate's heels for the rest of her life. He's not going to stop until he sees her dead.

Derek takes a few steps towards Argent, getting in his space. "You know what you need," he says, undoing Argent's buttons for him, "is to relax." He lifts his eyebrows, the question silent this time.

Argent very nearly turns him down—it's late, and he's stressed out and angry and he doesn't _want_ to relax, he wants to kill his sister. He recognizes the futility of the thought as soon as he has it, though. Derek's not wrong: if he doesn't calm down he's never going to get to sleep, and he's going to be less fit for whatever work they need to do tomorrow. Besides, he has a sneaking suspicion that Derek needs it just as much as he does.

"Yeah," he murmurs, as Derek gets his shirt open. Derek's hands are warm against his abdomen, just like they were when he rode behind Argent today. He didn't let his hands wander, but Argent was still distracted by his touch, and he thought of little else until Kate's scent disappeared on them. "Yeah, I could probably stand a little of that."

Derek kisses him, pulling him in by his hips, fingers falling again onto those clawmark scars. Argent wonders if he's doing it on purpose. Argent already feels a little more relaxed; he's become used to Derek's touch signaling the end of the day, the time to put down his worries. It doesn't take them long to get Argent out of the rest of his clothes, and Derek pushes him back on the bed looking none-too-hurried, settling on top of Argent in what seems to be his preferred position of one of his thighs pressed between Argent's legs. Because of course, that means Argent's got a thigh between his, too.

Derek's still fully clothed. Argent runs a hand up his back, bunching up his shirt, and Derek sighs against his lips. Derek's skin is so warm, his weight pleasantly heavy. He kisses Argent deep and open-mouthed, Argent's face in his hands—and then gives his hips an experimental little roll.

It's good. Has to be. Because Derek shudders full-body—pressed this close, Argent can feel it head to toe—and lets out a soft high noise into Argent's mouth that Argent's never heard him make before.

"Working?" Argent asks, stunned.

Derek nods, licking his lips. " _Yeah_ ," he says, voice low and rough. He pulls back a little, eyes dark. He looks as surprised as Argent is. "Uh—it's definitely working. Wow."

Argent is suddenly, desperately turned on—he thought he'd seen Derek needy, and maybe he has, but seeing him _wanting_ is really something else. "Still thinking about it?"

Derek kisses him again, one hand running back through Argent's hair. When the kiss breaks, Derek keeps his face close to Argent's, lips parted, eyes closed. He doesn't answer.

Argent can feel him struggling with himself. "Derek—there's no rush."

"Isn't there?" Derek murmurs. He lays a few wet kisses on Argent's jaw, like he can't quite help himself, and it goes straight to Argent's dick, how much he really wants it. "You know it might not work," he breathes. "Probably won't."

Argent sure as hell isn't going to try to talk him into or out of it. "It's up to you," he reminds Derek.

Derek kisses him one more time; slips an arm between the small of his back and the bed. Then he rolls them over, pulls Argent with him so he's on top of Derek instead.

"Just your hands," he says. "No point in trying anything fancy."

Argent can barely believe it. Somehow he wasn't counting on ever getting this far with Derek, and he feels strangely ill-prepared. "Don't worry," he says. "I'm not a real fancy guy."

Derek laughs a little, breathy, because Argent is running his hand up the front of his shirt, stroking his chest. His gun calluses catch briefly over Derek's nipples, and Derek bites back a rough little noise, shifting up into his touch.

Right away Argent finally begins to see what Derek might be getting out of this. Not that he's never gotten anybody off before, but it's never been like _this_ , focused so wholly on what he thinks Derek might like that he forgets he's hard as nails himself. He never thought he'd see Derek this way, and every sigh and and flutter of his lashes is sexier than it would be on anyone else. "Get your shirt?" he asks, and Derek nods, so Argent gets to peel it off him—something so small and simple, something's Derek's done for him many times, and now it feels so hugely important.

Derek looks good like this, hair rumpled, flushed and pressed down into the mattress. Argent kisses Derek's lips, then he corner of his mouth, his jaw. Derek hums, one hand settling on Argent's hip, the other arm looping under Argent's so his hand rests on the back of his neck.

Pressed chest-to-chest like this, Argent can feel Derek's heart pounding. He trails his kisses over to the side of Derek's neck, and Derek tips his head to let him, grip on Argent tightening a little. He lets out a low noise, almost a growl.

Wait.

Argent feels the prick of something sharp against the skin of his hip—five claws over five scars. He pulls back to see Derek's eyes flash blue in the dark as Derek struggles for control. It only takes a moment; his fangs and claws retract, and then he's normal again. He didn't even break the skin.

But Argent has already jerked back and is near the foot of the bed, one hand slapping uselessly at his side in sheer reflex. His right side—where he normally keeps his gun.

Derek didn't miss it.

There's a long silence. "Told you wouldn't work," Derek says, not meeting Argent's eyes.

Argent tries to catch his breath. "I'm sorry," he says, "you—you just startled me."

The look Derek gives him is genuinely hurt. "Startled you?" he repeats. "I think I _scared_ you. I can smell it on you."

God _damn_ werewolves and their sense of smell. "I'm sorry," Argent says again. "We can...we can just go to sleep—"

Derek gives him a disgusted look. "I'm going for a run."

Argent groans. "Derek, come on. It's one in the morning."

Derek slides off the bed. "Don't wait up," he says, and opens the window. Then he shifts, black as the shadows around him, and leaps into the dark.

Argent curses, scrambling off the bed and towards the window, but there's no stopping him, and Argent isn't sure he would even if he could. He should have—seen that coming. Derek told him several times he was still getting the hang of the new anchor. Argent should have prepared himself, so he didn't—react that way.

Argent thumps his head forward against the wall. Derek must be coming to a hundred different conclusions right now, all of them equally terrible and untrue. There's nothing he can do about that until Derek chooses to come back. If he ever does—Argent isn't sure he would.

Slowly, Argent reaches down to brush his fingers over the scars on his hip, so tiny and faint that he hasn't given them any real thought in years. It's so strange, he thinks, that all these years later Derek found them—them, but not the identical ones on Argent's other side.

Argent gets dressed. He's not going to sleep. He's going to wait here, and when Derek comes back—

There's a story Argent really needs to tell him.

 

* * *

 

Derek doesn't go back to the room to sleep. After he's run himself breathless he finds a rooftop to curl up on, far away from the motel, still in the full shift. It's harder for shame and self-loathing to take root when Derek's in this body, but they both do a good job anyway. How could Derek have been so stupid? Is he ever going to learn?

He wakes human again only a few hours later, with the chirping of the birds that comes with pre-dawn. There's a weight in his chest that makes getting up seem impossible, but eventually Derek shifts again and gets up anyway. He can't find the anger he'd like to feel, so instead he's stuck with the dread. He doesn't want to go back to the motel room; he doesn't want to even look at or think about Chris right now. But he goes anyway, because he can't avoid it forever, and because that's how Derek works, apparently: he won't trust the people he should, and goes back to the ones he knows will hurt him with his tail between his legs.

The sky is lightening a little in the east by the time Derek wriggles back into the motel room through the still-open window. Chris is awake and dressed, sitting in the chair across from the foot of the bed waiting for him.

Derek, without quite meaning to, growls a little. He was hoping Chris would be asleep.

Chris doesn't seem surprised. "Yeah, I deserve that." He drags a hand down his face. "Your clothes are in the bathroom if you want them."

Derek does want them, and he's annoyed that Chris was thoughtful enough to put them somewhere he could have a little privacy.

After he gets dressed, he leans against the sink. Forces himself to look up at his reflection, because he's going to need anger for whatever comes next, and if there's one person Derek can always be angry at it's himself.

"Can we talk?" Chris asks, as Derek walks back out. He looks exhausted; he must have waited on Derek all night.

Derek tells himself very firmly that he does not care. "I'd rather get going. It's almost dawn."

"Derek."

He looks so sad. Like Jennifer, who pleaded so sweetly for him to believe her, before she knew Scott and Stiles already told him the truth. _You have to trust me, okay? You trust_ me _. Promise you'll listen to me._ She tried to kiss him then, too, but by then he knew better than to kiss back.

"Five minutes," Chris pleads, standing, hands outstretched. "What happened last night was wrong, it was on me, and you at least deserve an explanation. You don't have to stay if you don't like what you're hearing."

Chris spends so much time trying and failing to understand things about Derek—but God, he _tries_. And sometimes, like now, he gets it just right. If he had tried to say it was Derek's fault, or that Derek owed him those five minutes, Derek would have left—because it wasn't and he doesn't.

Derek probably ought to leave anyway. Chris reached for his _gun_. But he never learns. He wants to believe there's a good reason and it's not any of the bad ones. He's still angry with himself, but it doesn't stop him from doing the stupid thing: he motions for Chris to go ahead, then folds his arms tight across his chest and waits.

Chris lets out a breath of relief. "Do you—do you want to sit down?" Derek gives him an incredulous look, and he winces. "All right, no." Chris takes a deep breath. "All right," he says again, quietly. "All right."

He reaches for the button of his pants, and Derek actually takes half a step back, but he's just undoing them enough to slide them down one hip. "You see this?" he asks. Derek does. The one on front, and the four further back on his side. _Werewolf_ , Chris said. Derek's eyes jerk up to his face. "You found these," Chris says, and slides his pants back up, only to tug them down on the other side. "But you didn't catch this set."

Derek frowns. He kind of wondered, at the time—how a werewolf wound up grabbing Chris at such an awkward angle during a fight. But there are two sets. Not one hand: two. Settled around Chris's waist, in the same places Derek's hands always land when he kisses him.

Because Derek's not the first werewolf Chris Argent has kissed.

"So, what," Derek says at last, "you have some kind of fucked up werewolf fetish, is that what you're trying to tell me? All that animal stuff turn you on?" Derek _is_ an animal, deep down, and he goes for the throat. "Don't expect me to be surprised. You wouldn't be the first hunter I've met who gets off on a little taboo."

Chris grinds his teeth, but he doesn't take the bait. "If that were the case," he says, tone very carefully level, "I wouldn't have been _frightened_." He lifts his eyebrows. "I thought he was human until he turned."

Derek sits down after all.

"It was a full moon. Things got hot and heavy, his pulse went up, and—" Chris shrugs, and he sits back down too. "He tried to kill me." He meets Derek's eyes, terribly serious. "You listen to my heartbeat when I say it, Derek. It wasn't about you. New anchor or not, I know you won't hurt me, and I meant it when I said I wasn't afraid of you. But Riley—" Chris looks away, swallowing hard. "Riley terrified me."

Derek is listening to his heartbeat. And it did rise, but only on the name. Chris wasn't just terrified back then, or last night: it still scares him right this second.

"This is on me," Chris says again. "I should have thought things through a little more. I shouldn't have let it surprise me."

Derek sighs, reluctant. He should know better, but he believes Chris, and already some of the suspicion and dread are draining away; the anger, of course, is already gone. "Or maybe I should have had more control."

"You shouldn't have had to," Chris says seriously. "Not right then, of all times. That was—important. I'm so sorry it ended like that. I...wanted to do better."

Derek looks away. "You know, it's not as important as you think it is. Getting me off isn't actually going to—to _undo_ any of the rest of it. It won't just _fix_ me. It's not that simple." His jaw works a moment, and he adds, "I'm sorry too. What I said—that wasn't fair."

"Considering the circumstances," Chris says, "it wasn't entirely unwarranted, either."

The silence sits a moment, and then Derek looks up at Chris again. "Tell me something."

"Mm."

"He tried to kill you. Your—friend."

Chris nods, wordless.

"But you're still alive," Derek points out. "So what'd you do? How'd you get away?"

"Ah, Derek." Chris leans back in his chair. "You don't want to know. Trust me, you don't want to know about all that."

Derek suspects he already does, but he wants to hear it from Chris. "You kill him?" What he really wants to ask is, _If I lost control, would you kill me too?_

It's his policy, though, to keep his mouth shut on stupid questions.

"He was dangerous," Chris says. "Totally out of control. I didn't want to do it, I was nineteen years old, I'd never killed anybody before. But when I looked into his eyes—" Chris swallows. "I saw _nothing_. He was like—a rabid dog. All he cared about was the kill." Chris taps two fingers to the center of his forehead, right between the eyes. "I was forced to put a bullet in his head." He drops his hand, his eyes far away. "And the whole while that he lay there dying," he continues, voice gone hushed, "he was still trying to claw his way towards me. Still trying to kill me. Like it was the most important thing he could do with his last breath."

Derek's frowning. "But you shot him between the eyes."

"I had to," Chris says. "Derek, it was self-defense. I didn't have a choice."

That's not what Derek means. "Chris," he says, "nothing survives a bullet between the eyes—not even a werewolf."

Chris looks up at Derek, stunned. "What?"

"If you shot him between the eyes," Derek says, "he couldn't have come at you after."

Chris looks away, rattled. "I—" He blinks, shaking his head. "You're right, I—I must—I must be remembering it wrong, but—" He lifts a hand to his head, fingertips touching that same place, right between his eyes. "He did. He tried to kill me. He was _rabid_ —"

Chris's phone rings.

They both stare at it for a moment in bewilderment, because neither of them have gotten a single call from anyone the entire time they've been looking for Kate. Not even from one another; they've spent almost the entirety of the last month within earshot of each other.

The number is blocked. Chris picks up and puts it on speaker. "Hello?" he says hesitantly.

"Christopher," comes Araya Calavera's voice over the line, sounding warm. "It's been awhile since we last spoke, hm? How goes the search for your sister?"

Chris gives Derek an alarmed look. "We, uh, tracked her halfway up the coast before we lost the scent," he says. "We're in Point Arena now, it's about a day out from Beacon Hills."

"Well!" Araya says. "I'll give Derek Hale one thing: he has a very good sense of smell. We've been tracking her up the coast too, and she's not far from where you are. We're only a couple of hours away," Araya adds. "Why don't you meet us there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a 5% chance of surviving a gunshot wound to the head, and it's probably higher for a werewolf, but even if you do you're not conscious, and I didn't feel like having Derek mansplain that to us, so forgive the slight medical inaccuracy.
> 
> The French in this chapter translates to "Why would I learn Spanish when I have you?" and then "Go fuck yourself." Remember that second one for later!


	4. Part IV

Araya directs Argent and Derek to a remote little town further up the coast—unsurprisingly in the direction of Beacon Hills. Derek chooses to run it; the trees are a little thicker here, and the overcast day means the shadows are plenty dark enough to avoid being seen. Argent kind of misses having him on the back of the bike, but he's not about to bring it up. He feels fortunate Derek's still talking to him at all.

Of course, if they finally do kill Kate today, they may not be talking much longer. Argent doesn't know what Derek plans to do after she's dead—he doesn't even know what he wants to do himself. He almost died in those tunnels a month ago, and his only reason for trying one last time to get out was to catch Kate. What the hell is he supposed to do after she's gone?

Argent pulls the bike over on a deserted section of sandy riverbed beneath a high bridge, Derek not far behind him. He sends the Calaveras his coordinates, then gets to reading all the messages his phone received while he drove.

It's Kate's trail, the one the Calaveras were tracking. "Apparently she's been killing people," he says to Derek as Derek gets dressed. "A _lot_ of people." He shows him the phone screen. Body after body, all with the same clawmarks, the same unhinged bloodlust and rage. Half the people she ran into, she murdered. Argent remembers the warning he was given back in Mexico: _The more they kill, the crazier they get. The crazier they get, the more they kill._ "Could be why she tried for the wilderness at first," Argent says weakly. "Fewer targets."

Derek gives him a pitying look. "I don't think _Kate_ is too concerned with the value of a human life."

"No," Argent sighs, "you're right." Kate, after all, was both killing and going crazy long before she was turned. So was most of Argent's family, for that matter. "I doubt Kate's been concerned with the welfare of anyone but herself for a long, long time."

"Come on, Chris," says Kate from the trees, "don't you think that's a _little_ harsh?"

Argent's hand flies towards his pistol, but Kate has the same training he does, and hers is already out. A shot cracks and the force of the bullet has the pistol flying out of his hand; another warning shot explodes the sand in front of his feet before he can reach for his second.

"Ah-ah-ah, Chris," Kate says, pistol aimed right between his eyes. She looks rough; dirty, clothes bloodied and torn in places, hair wild and tangled. "Hands on your head. You too, handsome," she says to Derek. "Better watch those claws. If I have to shoot him, I will."

Derek's gone white as a sheet, but there's a hatred in his eyes like Argent hasn't seen in a long time. He growls out a warning, eyes flashing, as he does what she says.

"I don't want to," Kate continues. "I don't want to hurt you, Chris, because you're my brother. So I'm giving you one last chance: go home. Forget about me and just go."

"How can you say that?" Argent demands. "Kate, look at yourself, the people you've killed—you're totally out of control!" He aches for his gun—she's here, right in front of him, and he can do nothing, not even put himself between her and Derek. The weight of Kate's sins has been crushing him this whole time—how can she stand here so easily, like she doesn't feel them? This is his _sister_ —where's her shame, her remorse? His eyes flick over to Derek. "Don't you understand what you've _done_?"

Kate follows his gaze. "Did he tell you about me?" she murmurs. Her senses must pick up something from Derek that his can't, because a smile breaks over her face. "He did, didn't he? Aw, sweetie—you must feel so much better with that finally off your chest!" she says. "I'm glad you finally told _somebody_."

Argent can't take it—the way she's looking at him, the way she's talking to him, that false brightness. "What is _wrong_ with you?" he shouts. "What you _did_ to him—" Derek gives him a murderous look. No, it's not his right, he knows, he _knows_ , but—

Kate laughs softly, shaking her head. "Oh, Chris," she scoffs. "What, did he paint you some grim little picture of me dragging him away in chains so I could have my wicked way with him? You bought it hook line and sinker, didn't you?" She _tsks_ and glances over at Derek. "Yeah, he just has one of those convincing faces. I think it's those adorable puppy-dog eyes of his. They make him look so innocent. Trust me—he had just as much fun as I did. Maybe more." She pauses, eyes on Derek's face, and smiles a little. "Until the fire, anyway."

Argent feels his throat close, remembering the naked devastation on Derek's face in the light of the fire, his hands trembling in his lap, looking anything but innocent. _She didn't force me. I let her._ He's never been so furious at anyone in his life.

"He's not worth dying for, Chris," Kate warns. "Go home."

"Not before I kill you," Argent says, and reaches into his jacket—

Kate fires, and pain blooms along his forearm as he drops his second pistol, too.

Derek moves towards him, before Kate briefly trains her gun on him instead and he has to stop. "Chris—"

"She just winged me," Argent gasps, because it's true even if it does hurt like hell. "I'm fine—"

Derek's eyes are fixed on Kate. "Do what she says," he says lowly, which does nothing for Argent's fury. "She'll just kill us both like this. If you get out of my way, I can take her."

Kate laughs again. "Now _that_ sounds like fun. But I'd be careful if I were you, sweetie. Not too many people walk away from me alive these days."

Incredibly, Derek somehow finds it in him to smile, a hard and frightened thing that doesn't meet his eyes. "Took you well enough back at La Iglesia," he says, and despite the tremor in his voice he sounds sure of himself. Fear flickers across Kate's expression for the first time. "Go," he says to Chris. "This is what I came for."

"I'm _not_ leaving you alone with her!"

"You're not doing me any favors by sticking around to be her human shield!"

Kate's eyes flick back and forth between them. She inhales, deep, and Argent's blood runs cold because he knows exactly what she's doing. "Holy shit," she says. "You're _fucking_ him."

"Don't," Argent says, because Derek's gone silent again and Kate never knew how to leave a fragile thing alone. "Kate, don't."

"Oh, you act all high and mighty with me, but you're getting a piece of that every night, aren't you?" Kate lets out an incredulous laugh and steps closer. Argent's heart hammers against his ribs. "I thought you were done with werewolves after Riley." Another step. "Did you tell him about that, by the way?" she asks. "Does he have any idea how _cruel_ you can be?" One more step, so she's right up in his space. "Not," she says, "that he's not into that now and then."

Argent leaps at her with a wordless cry of rage. She fires again, but she was so caught up in taunting them she didn't realize he was in the range to twist her gun arm away from him, and the shot goes wide as he knocks her to the ground. They roll—then Kate's strength wins out over Argent's injuries and he feels the barrel digging into his throat.

"You were never any better than I was," Kate hisses as she drags them to their feet, Argent in front of her. Derek's snarling, completely shifted into his beta form, furious. "And _you know it_. You know that deep down, we're made of the exact same stuff. You really wanna kill me?" She presses a kiss to the side of his head, like when they were kids. "Then it's kill or be killed now. Sorry, brother. Can't say I didn't try." Argent feels the barrel press into his temple.

But Kate doesn't shoot him. The moment hangs and stretches out, with only Kate's harsh panting in his ear. Finally, with a cry of frustration, she shoves him forward into the sand and aims her gun at Derek instead.

Kate fires, then she's off like a shot herself, leaving Argent stumbling to his feet, rushing to check on Derek. If she aimed it at his head—if she got him between the eyes—

But she didn't. Derek's dropped to his knees, but he's just clutching his side. "Derek!" Argent pulls Derek's hands away to see. The bullet struck him just beneath the ribs, not too far from where the last bullet Argent dug out of him was. Argent lets out a breath of relief. He'll be fine. "You're okay," he says, "you're okay—"

Then Derek growls, low and dangerous. Slowly, Argent looks up—to see black blood on his lips, and emptiness in his eyes.

Wolfsbane.

"Oh God, no," Argent whispers, because even without checking the wound again he knows which kind this must be. He gets to his feet. "Derek, listen to me—"

But Derek lunges at him claws-first, and Argent has to get out of range or die.

_"Riley? Hey—what is it, what's wrong?"_

It can't be. It can't _be_. He can't have failed Derek this badly. To be killed by Kate after all the time he's spent trying to escape her, to go out like _this_ when he fought so hard to rid himself of rage? No. Nevermind that green wolfsbane is so dangerous even Gerard didn't like to use it. Nevermind that in all the years Argent has hunted he's never heard of a single werewolf surviving it.

This can't be how Derek Hale dies.

_Growling close to his ear—claws digging into his hips—he cries out and struggles free—_

Argent begins edging back from Derek, who pants and snarls like a wild thing, eyes wide, nostrils flared. "Derek," he says, "can you hear me?"

His back hits a tree. Derek swings out with one hand and Argent ducks, splinters raining down on him as Derek shreds the tree to pieces.

_Claws coming at his head—deep gouges in a concrete wall where his head had been only seconds before—_

Even with every reflex on high alert, Argent can't dodge fast enough. Derek lunges at Argent again, this time shredding his left sleeve. "Derek," Argent groans, grabbing the wound, "come on, you've got to fight it—"

Derek whirls and kicks Argent right in the chest. Argent flies backwards and lands on his back in the sand, cracking his temple on a rock. Derek strides towards him—

_Growling from closeby—glowing eyes flashing in the dark—move, move—_

Argent rolls and Derek's fist hits the ground, sand flying in their faces. He struggles to his feet, but he's too slow—Derek turns towards him and backhands him in the same swift movement, claws slicing open his cheek. Argent stumbles back, trips, and goes down. "Derek," he chokes, around the blood in his mouth. "Please."

_"Riley, stop! I don't want to hurt you—don't make me hurt you, please—"_

Derek leaps on him, his face filling Argent's vision, and Argent grabs him by the shoulders, trying to keep those snapping teeth away from his body. But Derek's strong, stronger than Kate was, stronger than most things Argent's fought. His fangs sink into the meat of Argent's shoulder.

Argent yells. Pain and terror give him enough adrenaline to knee Derek in the stomach and scramble away, leaving a little of his shoulder behind.

Argent's hand lands on something metal in the sand. His pistol. He grabs it and spins—

_A body on the floor, crawling towards him, gasping, bloody hand outstretched—oh, God—_

Argent fumbles and drops the pistol, even as Derek is coming back towards him. "Derek, _please_ ," he says, but Derek is looking right through him. With a deafening roar, he grabs Argent by the shoulders and bodily throws him backwards. Argent hits the bike and drops to the dirt, wind knocked out of him.

_A door bursts open and he drops his gun. "What in the hell is going on in here?"_

Suddenly there's a spray of bullets. Argent jerks his head up to the bridge. It's the Calaveras, and the one holding the machine gun is none other than the hunter who loaned Argent the bike back in Mexico. They vault over the bridge railing two at a time, rushing down the grassy hillside towards the riverbank. Maybe they realize what Derek's been hit with and it scares the hell out of them too, or maybe him attacking Argent was reason enough. Either way, he's counting Derek's life in seconds once they get down here.

He's got to think. If they beat the odds to save Jackson from the kanima and Stiles from the nogitsune, there _must_ be a way to save Derek from himself too.

Wait, wait— _kanima venom_. He _has_ that, he brought a little from Beacon Hills intending to use it on Kate. Argent struggles to his feet even as he sees the blurry silhouette of Derek stalking towards him again, and reaches desperately for the pack strapped to the bike.

There's another spray of bullets. Derek's head jerks up to snarl at the Calaveras, and Argent uses those precious seconds to locate his vial of kanima venom. He yanks it out of the pack and ducks just in time to avoid Derek's claws shredding right through his neck. Argent rolls—Derek's facing the hunters now, claws out and fangs bared—Argent lifts the vial and shouts his name.

Derek looks over, momentarily distracted. Argent throws.

Argents never miss. The vial flies straight at Derek's head. Derek catches it and crushes it in one hand.

Derek's glowing blue eyes widen as he looks at his own trembling and bloody hand. Then he pitches forward into the sand.

"Stop!" Argent shouts, getting back to his feet, one hand thrown up in the direction of the hunters. "Stop, stop! I got him!" He lets out a shaking breath. "I got him—it's kanima venom—it's okay—"

There must be half a dozen of them, maybe more, including Araya. They stare openly as Argent digs for a lighter.

Argent looks up at Derek. He's dragging himself through the dirt towards him, growling, mouth and hands covered in blood. Argent feels his own pulse stutter—the venom isn't working? Maybe it was too small a dose, or Derek's accelerated heartrate is processing it too quickly. He's going to have to be fast.

"Derek," he starts, but as soon as he gets close Derek swipes at him again, leaving four deep gashes along the front of his calf. Argent stumbles back, hissing, but he has to keep trying—he approaches Derek from behind, instead, acutely aware of all the eyes on him. Derek gnashes his teeth, manages to heave himself over onto his back, and kicks out at Argent instead, sending him stumbling back onto the sand.

"It's no use, Christopher," says Araya. "You are fighting a pointless battle."

Argent gets back to his feet, gasping. "I'm not."

He flips the lighter open. Maybe if he's quick—but this time when he gets close, Derek snaps at him with his fangs again, leaving two more long scrapes along his forearm.

" _Enough,_ " says Araya. "If he were an alpha, you would have just died. He is beyond help."

The hunter Argent met from before steps forward. "Should I take care of it?"

Araya holds up a hand. "Not yet, Maria." She does take Maria's pistol, though, and walks towards Argent.

" _No_ ," he says, but she takes his hand anyway; folds his limp and bloody fingers closed around the handle.

"I think," Araya says, "that you should be the one."

Argent's eyes dart around, seeking some impossible escape. "You can't ask me to do that," he chokes. The pistol feels impossibly heavy in his hand; he doesn't even want to be touching it. "We can still save him—"

Araya folds her arms. "You forget yourself, Christopher. Who you _are_. Look at him: he's a danger to everyone here. There is no saving him now, and while you try, the venom grows weaker and weaker. And when he does get back up—if he is still living—he will kill us all."

"No," Argent says, shaking his head, "no, no, no—you don't know him—"

"I know what he _is_ ," says Araya. "I can see the color of his eyes. He has killed, and he will kill again, especially now—again and again, body after body, and he won't stop until he dies."

"That's not Derek," Argent says. "It's not."

"You're right," Araya says. "It's _not_ Derek." She grabs his chin and jerks his head around to make him look at Derek, lying on the ground, red and black blood pouring down his chin, Argent's blood all over his claws and fangs, eyes still glowing as he snarls wetly from his place in the sand. "That is a monster. An animal. A rabid dog, that needs putting down. I shouldn't have to tell you of all people that," Araya says furiously. "Where is your honor, your pride? Don't you understand what needs to be done? Remember our _code_!"

Argent jerks away from her.

He does remember the code: _we hunt those who hunt us_. He's tried so _hard_ to live by that ideal—to never shed innocent blood, to kill only the dangerous things, to use lethal force only when necessary. And he knows now: killing Riley wasn't. His family learned decades ago how many amps of electricity it takes to stop a werewolf from transforming, from healing, from using their super-strength. Argent learned those numbers in drills as a child, recited them from memory while sawing through ropes around his wrists during training, never giving a thought to just how they must have gotten them. Hell, how many times has he subdued an out-of-control werewolf himself? Erica, Boyd, Cora—they even found ways to restrain the kanima, the thousand-year-old _nogitsune_. But there's nothing about restraint in his family's code. Even the things they can't kill just get put on a list of someday-targets, because anything not human will eventually resort to violence inexcusable enough for it to be put down.

Where has following that kind of code gotten him? Family dead or out of their minds, slaughtering innocents with the same bloodlust and lack of control they claim to look down upon, because they're convinced certain lives hold no value. Twice now Argent's killed someone he held dear to honor his family's ideals, but there's no honor in the blood on his hands. There's no honor in his cowardice: the way he watched people he loved commit evil in the name of the greater good countless times and said nothing, did _nothing_ , because he wasn't brave enough to stand up to his family. Kate may be the worst of them, but it doesn't begin or end with her. Gerard, Victoria, even Argent himself, for his willful blindness, and for much worse—not a single one of them comes out clean.

All his life he's done too little. Every time, he's been too late.

No more.

Argent tosses the pistol back into the sand. "To hell with the code," he says, raising his voice so they can all hear him. "All it does is turn good people into monsters. I refuse to live by something like that."

"Then what _do_ you live by?" Araya hisses. "If you will not follow our code, then _what do you stand for_?"

The answer comes to Argent so suddenly and with such a force it's like a blow to the chest.

It hurt so much to remember that he tried his best to forget it, but he could never get rid of it entirely. Because it's in his _blood_ , as much as Kate and Gerard ever were. It's been in him all along, waiting patiently for him to find it again—given to him by the very first person who watched him point a gun at a werewolf and begged him not to shoot.

Araya has her own pistol out. Derek is still on the ground, snarling.

Argent, weaponless, steps between them.

"We protect," he says, a tremor in his voice, "those who cannot protect themselves." He digs his feet into the sand; anchors himself here to this spot that he will not move from, no matter the cost. " _Anyone_ who cannot protect themself," he adds. "Even someone like Derek. Even from someone like you."

Araya narrows her eyes. The rest of the hunters stand still and silent, shocked; some lowered their guns when Argent put himself in the line of fire, but not all of them. "If you are too weak to do what's necessary," Araya says, "then step aside and let me do it for you."

Argent is shaking all over. He doesn't understand; he's looked death in the face a hundred times over and never felt terror like this. "No," he says, voice unsteady but decision made. "It would be wrong to kill him, and I won't let you do it."

"Look at him!" Araya shouts. "It is _necessary_ to kill him—he's dangerous, out of control! Everyone he kills after the venom wears off—their blood, it will be on _your_ hands!"

" _I won't let you_ ," Argent chokes. "If you want to kill him that badly, you're going to _have_ to kill me first!"

And Araya actually does raise her pistol; points it squarely between Argent's eyes.

Argent doesn't move. The thought of taking a single step now terrifies him more than the thought of dying ever has.

There is a long silence. She watches him with narrowed eyes. Then at last she lowers her gun. The look she gives him is somewhere between disgust and pity. "You are lost," she says. "Perhaps it is better your family is not here to see the disgrace you bring to their name— _Argent_."

It's the only time she's ever called him that, and she says the name like a curse. Perhaps it is.

"Killing you is not in the code," Araya says. "But I do not have to kill you: Derek will do it for me." She leans in. "And all the people he comes for, after he leaves your _corpse_ bleeding on the ground— _that_ will be your legacy."

She gives him one last long look and spins on her heel. "Come. We go after Kate."

The hunters follow her. The one named Maria looks back over her shoulder. They think Argent is going to die. But he's not, not today, not now that he's finally found his reason to stay.

He turns to Derek.

The venom is starting to wear off. As Argent watches, Derek staggers halfway to his feet and falls face-first in the sand again. He starts growling again when Argent gets close, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He certainly looks the part of a monster: eyes glowing, fangs out, his claws covered in Argent's blood, and the gunshot wound leaving black and red blood running down his side, his chin.

Argent kneels a few feet away from him, to get as close to eye-level as possible. There's a muscle jumping in Derek's throat. Argent remembers the feeling of green wolfsbane in his system; his own heart pounds in sympathy as he clutches his lighter with white knuckles and thinks: _please, please, please._

"Derek," he says quietly. "You asked me something when we first started this. I don't know if you even remember. You wanted to know why, when Peter pinned me to that wall, I didn't just stay there. Why I kept going when I had nothing left." He inches forward; not yet within striking distance, but getting closer. "I wasn't sure back then, but I remember now. I got up for Allison." His beautiful daughter, now seventeen forever, wise beyond her years despite the stock she came from, the only good thing he ever did. She saved him today. She may yet save Derek, too. She still protects, even though she's gone. "I got up because I needed to be there to protect Scott. Because deep down, part of me still remembered what she asked me to do."

Derek roars in his face. Heart in his throat, Argent gets a little closer, both hands up, lighter still in one.

"You do remember, I know you do," he breathes. "What keeps the better part of you in control. What keeps you here when you'd rather let go. It was _my_ anchor, Derek. I lost it for a little while," he admits with a shaky chuckle. "But you reminded me. Because it's the same as yours."

Derek sits up, jaw working. Argent moves closer. Derek could strike out at him now—but he doesn't. He's still growling, but he doesn't move either.

"You're here to protect people," Argent says, and flips the lighter open. "You're not here to hurt them. And I know you don't want to hurt me. You're not some rabid animal, Derek. I believe you can hear me and understand me right now—just like he could." Argent swallows, hard. "I've done so many terrible things," he whispers. "I didn't have to kill Riley, but I did. I won't make that mistake again. I'm not killing you, Derek—do you hear me? I won't do it. So you're either going to have to hold still and let me burn this fucking wolfsbane out of you, or you're going to have to take me with you."

Derek stops growling. He looks at Argent—actually looks _at_ him, instead of through him—and Argent sees through the dirt there are tears streaked down his face. He is in there. He is listening.

"Oh, God," Argent says. "All right, it's gonna hurt like hell—but if you can give me about thirty seconds, Derek, I swear to God I'll get you out of this."

Derek's eyes squeeze shut. His hands, already trembling, curl into fists, claws digging into his palms. And, like a moment from another lifetime, he leans back, one leg drawn up, exposing his side so that Argent can get to the bullet.

"Brace yourself," Argent says. "And try not to kill me." And he reaches out, slides up Derek's shirt, and presses the flame into his flesh.

 

* * *

 

Long after Derek first learned about the green wolfsbane, morbid curiosity kept him wondering what it would be like to die like that. Derek's spent a lot of his life using his anger—or letting it use him. It was his anchor, after all, and it's easier to be angry than it is to be scared. For Derek the two feelings used to be nearly interchangeable; fear couldn't touch him with anger as his shield. So maybe he told himself a few times that he could fight the green wolfsbane if it was him, because of his experiences. Because he came by his control the hard way, and if he was backed into a corner, he could use that rage to find control again.

He didn't have a clue.

Whatever Chris learned about the wolfsbane is wrong. Maybe because no one who's been hit with it has ever survived it; they had to make guesses from the outside. And from the outside, Derek knows he looks furious. But he's spent most of his life wrestling with rage, and this isn't just rage.

It's also terror.

It isn't like the full moon; that bloodlust is easily suppressed by reminding himself of what keeps him human. Nor is it like the nogitsune's spell; that changed his very thoughts to suggest retribution was more important than anything else. No, Derek is thrown right back into that place he was after Laura died, where everyone was his enemy and every moment could be his last. Where he never knew if he was furious or terrified because he spent so much time being both and the only way to survive in a world that didn't want him was to lash out and strike first.

He knows who Chris is. He knows who the Calaveras are. They aren't prey or targets; they're people, and he understands every word they speak between them—but it doesn't matter, because to let them live would be to invite his own death, and Derek, halfway to an animal, is nothing but survival instinct. _Kill or be killed_ , that's what Kate said to Chris, and for Derek it's never been more true.

You don't talk to someone like that, especially if that someone is a werewolf trying to tear your head off. It could be that no one ever was dumb enough to sit down and try until Chris Argent. Because that's Chris: he tries. A lot of times, he fucks up; sometimes, he gets it just right.

Reminding Derek about his anchor is just right because it reminds him that if there's anything worse than dying like this it's hurting someone like this. So he lets Chris close, some part of him certain that it will be his undoing. Frightening, yes—but it isn't as hard as it should be.

After all, it's what he's been doing all along.

Then Derek burns. Hurting like hell doesn't begin to describe it; every vein and cell lights up with the fire Chris presses into his flesh, his pounding heart coursing the agony through his very blood. This must what it's like to burn alive, a pain he's long had coming—the knife is impossibly worse, razor-sharp edge of the blade scraping his ribs as Chris digs it in haphazardly to try and get the bullet out as quickly as possible. Someone's screaming; Derek thinks it must be him. Because he's going to die after all, he knows he is, he's never been more certain of anything in his life—

Then it's out, and the wound begins to close, and the sound of Derek's own frantic heart finally fades to something he can tune out. It's quiet, save for the the murmur of thunder in the distance and the running water close by.

He's alive.

Kate tried to kill him, tried to make him take Chris with him, but his anchor held fast, and for the second time in a month he has survived the unsurvivable. And Chris—

Chris is calling Derek's name. He looks as terrified as Derek was a moment ago. As terrified as he did when he stood between Derek and Araya.

He saved Derek's life. Now they're two for two.

"I thought," Derek croaks, blood on his tongue, "I told you not to do that again."

"Oh, God." Chris takes Derek's face in his hands and Derek wants to protest that his mouth is full of blood and his limbs still aren't working quite right, but there's no time before Chris pulls him in. Not to kiss him, though—he embraces him, holding on tight, one hand cradling the back of Derek's head.

"Thank you," Derek says into Chris's shoulder. He was right, after all: there probably aren't many worse ways to go. "Thank you."

Chris presses a kiss into Derek's hair, fingers digging into his back. He's still shaking all over, breath coming rough and unsteady. "How's—how's the paralysis?" he asks. "Is the venom still in your system?"

Derek tests it. He can wiggle his fingers and toes just fine, but his legs still pull against him when he tries to draw them up. Without the rush of adrenaline from the wolfsbane, he can barely move them at all. "Pretty bad," he admits. "Don't drop me." He pauses, taking in Chris's wounds: blood on his lips, dripping down one side of his face, face clawed open, covered in scratches and even a bite. "Gave you some new scars for sure," Derek says, with no small amount of regret. "I'm sorry."

Chris shakes his head, short and sharp. "I'm not," he says. "I'm not."

Derek wishes he could touch him; take back the pain he caused. "You need to get those patched up. That bite is going to bleed like crazy."

Chris draws back to stare at him, eyes wide.

"It's okay," Derek says, uncomfortable. "I'm—I'm not an alpha anymore. I couldn't have—you know, _turned_ you."

Chris eases Derek against the bike so he doesn't fall, and peels back the bloody layers of his jacket and shirt to look at the shape Derek's fangs left in his skin. He ghosts shaking fingertips to the places where the skin breaks.

Derek's seen Chris get upset—seen him have nightmares, watched him grieve for his family—but he's never seen him like this. Even his scent's wrong; he reeks of terror and stress just like Derek does, but there's guilt there, too; there's shame. The worst is surely over now. What is he still so afraid of? "Chris," Derek says lowly.

"Get a load of that," Chris says in wonder. "This is where he was bitten too."

"You mean Riley?"

Chris jerks his hand away from the wound as if burned.

Derek didn't live this long by not trusting his instincts, and right now his instincts are telling him something is very, very wrong. What was it Chris had asked, to get Derek talking about Kate...? "How'd you meet him?"

Chris's eyes flick back and forth, far away from here. "Uh—hunting. He was—he was a hunter, just like me."

"And when he got turned, he didn't want to—" Derek hesitates. "Honor the code?"

"Actually," Chris says, voice a little high, "actually, he did."

Derek feels dread begin to creep up his spine. Chris was cruel, Kate said, and suddenly Derek isn't so sure he wants to hear this story.

He asks anyway: because Chris saved his life, and because Chris, not unlike Derek not too long ago, needs to be asked. "What stopped him?"

Chris meets Derek's eyes at last, stunned. "Me."

 

* * *

 

_"How long?" Chris whispers, gazing in horror down at the shape the alpha's fangs left in Riley's skin. "Did you tell anybody else?"_

_Riley looks so sad; so resigned. "Just a few hours—or it would already be gone, eh?" He smiles bravely, but there are tears in his eyes. "I told only you." He takes Chris's hands in his. "I want to honor the code," he tells Chris sadly, "but—"_

_"_ No _," Chris says, trying to jerk his hands away._

_Riley is stronger than him now. He holds on. "But I don't want to tell your father," he continues. "Gerard would shut me up in some dark little room and make me do it on my own, and I—I do not think I could be this brave. I don't want to die alone," he says, "I want to do it with you, I want you to hold me. I can do it if you're there."_

_Chris finally pulls free. "You_ can't _."_

 _"I don't have a choice!" Riley bursts out. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I can feel it, even now. It is—inside me. And once the full moon is here, I will become a monster. I'll hurt everyone around me. I'll hurt_ you _."_

_"I'm a hunter. An Argent. You can't hurt me."_

_Riley takes Chris's hands again, thumb stroking his knuckles. "Je t'aime," he murmurs. "You know this, don't you? You're the closest I will ever have to family. I want to do this for you. I can't bear the thought of hurting you. And I can't—I want to die as myself, you understand? If I'm going to have to knock over the bucket anyway, I don't want it to be as some stupid, slavering, rabid—"_

_"It's kick," Chris says quietly, looking down at their joined hands._

_"What?"_

_"It's_ kick _," Chris says, "you kick the bucket when you die, but you're_ not _dying, not today, not while I have anything to say about it. No, listen," he says, when Riley opens his mouth to protest. "There's still three and a half weeks until the full moon. My family goes by a code, we only hunt those who hunt us, and you've never spilled human blood. If we can just teach you to control it, you don't have to die."_

_Riley's shaking his head. "It would never work. They would never accept it."_

_"Come on," says Chris. "Dad's strict, but he's not unreasonable. Three and a half weeks, Riley. Twenty-four days. If you're going to die anyway, you can give me that long, right?"_

"So we researched," Argent says, voice hushed. Telling the story has calmed him down a little, but he can still feel the warmth of Riley's hands in his, see Riley's blood on his own fingertips. He can also feel the weight of Derek's stare, but he can't meet his eyes right now, not do that and talk about this too. "We had no idea what we were doing—we were nineteen, we'd never actually talked to another werewolf, we didn't have the first clue about anchors or how you use them. We—" He actually laughs a little, though it's unsteady. "We snuck into Gerard's library at night and stole books. Borrowed chains and handcuffs from the armory to hold him while he practiced getting his heartrate down."

_Chris draws back from Riley and hits the stopwatch. Riley is already growling, and in a moment his eyes flash yellow, and he bares his fangs, claws sprouting from his fingertips, face shifting into the wolf's._

_Chris folds his arms and waits, unafraid._

_Riley rears back against the chains binding him to the metal bars behind him, thrashing and snarling, beating his own head against the bars. The chains hold fast, though, no matter how he furiously pulls and chews at them. And he is furious: were he free, Chris would certainly be dead by now. But eventually, Riley takes a few gasping breaths, and digs those claws into his palms. After a few moments, he's human again._

_Chris checks the stopwatch. "Three minutes, six seconds," he announces. "You're getting better."_

_"Three minutes," Riley croaks, "is certainly long enough to kill a man. Maybe many men."_

_"_ That _depends on how bad their reflexes are," Chris jokes._

_It does get Riley to smile, but it's a sad one. He never smiles for real anymore. "It's never going to work, Chris."_

_"Not with that attitude it won't," Chris huffs. "Please keep trying. For me." Riley slumps in his chains and nods, and Chris asks, "Ready to get your heartrate up again?"_

_Now Riley smirks. "Of course," he says. "You know, it's too bad hunter training was never this much fun."_

_Chris grins. "Get it under three even, and I'll make it even better," he promises. Then he leans in and kisses Riley again, for as long as he possibly can, until he hears him begin to growl._

"I helped him hide it," Argent whispers. "I swapped out our mountain ash for regular campfire ash, I opened the ash wood doors in the house so he could get in and out, got him out of the room if his eyes ever started glowing. My family used to meet up every couple of years," he explains to Derek, "and that month the place was packed. Thirty-plus hunters under one roof, and not one of them suspected us. It was our secret. And then one day," he says, "we found something incredible. Something we thought was even better than teaching Riley control. Something that was going to fix everything."

_Riley looks at Chris from his place by the window. "A cure?"_

_"Yeah, yeah," Chris says excitedly, "listen to this, it says, uh—" He squints. The book's in French, and he's been reading it so long his brain isn't quite translating right anymore, so he just reads the French aloud. "Il faut...too—twer—tuer? Celui kw—qui—"_

_Riley laughs, but he gets up from his own stack of books and wanders over. "Oh, my ears are bleeding. Let me see it, you butcher."_

_"Vas te faire," Chris replies, which is about the only French he can pronounce correctly, but he slides the book over._

_Riley frowns down at it for a moment. "You must kill the one who bit you," he translates._

_"We can do that," Chris says. "We're hunters, right? Even an alpha is going to have trouble when it's two on one, and one of them is a werewolf too. And he bit you, so we know it's by the code."_

_"I don't know." Riley closes the book. "What if we can't find him? What if it doesn't work?"_

_Chris shrugs. "We'd be no worse off than we are right now," he points out, "and the world would be a better place with one less monster to worry about. It can't hurt to try, right?"_

"And we did it," Argent says, "It took up the last six days of our time, but we tracked the alpha in secret to a little seaside town a lot like this one." He swallows hard; he feels as though he could be sick. "When we found him—I thought I'd have to help, but Riley tore him apart. He was facing away from me when he did it, so I—I didn't know," he says, throat tight, "I didn't know, I thought he was okay, I really thought he was okay—"

_Riley shoves Chris into the garage wall, laughing into his mouth as he kicks the door shut behind them. "God, I missed this." He begins undoing the buttons of Chris's shirt. "I was afraid we'd never get to fuck again."_

_"_ That's _what you're—" Chris pauses to let Riley kiss him again. "—mmm—what you're most excited about?" He's laughing too, giddy on the high of their success. "All the shit that's been hanging over our heads and that's what you're—_ Riley _," he gasps, as Riley's teeth scrape along the smooth skin of his jaw._

_Riley pulls back and smirks. "What can I say," he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to undo the button on Chris's jeans. "You're a beautiful man. I have my priorities." He brushes Chris's hair away from his face. "Thank you. I'm happy to be alive. I didn't think it would work, but you were right. You hang onto that hope for me, eh? Could come in handy later."_

Derek sucks in a breath. "But he wasn't cured."

"N—no." Argent shakes his head, heart racing. "He—he'd been practicing, he—he got the shift back under control _so_ _quickly_ —" He doesn't want to talk about this anymore, he doesn't want to, but he can't stop. "H-his wounds weren't healing, but that was because they were from an alpha, and I—I th-thought he was human until he turned," Argent says, voice gone high, breath coming fast, "we both did, but he—he wasn't, he wasn't even a normal werewolf anymore, he was—he was an alpha—"

_They're still kissing when Riley lets out a pained noise and chokes out Chris's name. "Riley?" Chris asks. He tries to pull back enough to see his face, but the wall is in the way. "Hey—what is it, what's wrong?"_

_There's growling close to his ear. Riley's fingers dig into his hips, and it hurts, it_ hurts _, because they aren't fingers, they're claws. Chris cries out and struggles free—_

_Riley lets out an earth-shaking roar, and lunges. Chris ducks, and Riley's claws leave deep gouges in the concrete wall behind him where his head was only moments before._

_"Riley, listen to me—"_

_There's growling from closeby, and glowing red eyes flash in the dark—Chris rolls. There's a table here where they keep weapons, and—yes, his hands close around a shotgun, he stands and whirls—_

_"Riley, stop! I don't want to hurt you—don't make me hurt you, please—"_

"So you shot him?" Derek asks quietly.

_Chris's hands tremble around the shotgun. What if Riley bites him? What if he gets turned too? He has to defend himself, doesn't he? Riley's coming at him again, he has only a second to decide—_

"I..." Something dark and terrible shakes loose in Argent's memory. His mouth drops open in horror and his vision blurs. "I didn't!" he cries, eyes wide. "Oh, God—" He drags in a shuddering gasp, covering his mouth with both hands, the truth a vice clenched around his chest. "Oh my God—I didn't shoot him!"

_A door bursts open and he drops his gun. "What in the hell is going on in here?"_

_It's his family, spilling through the doorway. His dad, Katie, at least two of his cousins that he can see— "No!" Chris shouts, because nevermind that he's covered in scratches and blood, nevermind that he doesn't even have his jeans buttoned—if Riley sees them he'll hurt them—_

_Riley, distracted, lunges for the door. "Wait," Chris shouts, "stop—!"_

_Too late._

_His father must have known the roar for a werewolf. Must have grabbed the most powerful weapon he had within arm's reach before he rushed to see what the commotion was. He never keeps himself far away from one; this one is an assault rifle, and it's filled with wolfsbane bullets._

_Chris knows they're wolfsbane, because black blood bleeds from every hole his father puts through Riley, an entire magazine's worth, before Riley hits the ground and stops moving._

"He's not moving," Argent whispers. He can't see Derek anymore. "Oh, God, this is what he was the most afraid of, this is exactly what he was trying to avoid, it's all my fault—"

 _Gerard's hand comes down hard on Chris's shoulder, his face a stone mask of fury. "You were trying to help him, weren't you. You've been_ hiding _it."_

_"We—we thought there was a cure," Chris tries to explain, but he's crying and it sounds so foolish and naive to him now. He sounds like a child. "He hasn't hurt anyone, I just thought—"_

_"You_ thought _?" Gerard roars. "He hasn't_ hurt _anyone? Look at yourself! This is—"_

"—why we have a code!" Argent chokes. "This is what it's for!"

 _Gerard waves his gun at the body on the ground. "Look at_ him _! If he'd honored the code, do you think he would have ended up like this?" Gerard grabs Chris by the chin and forces his head to turn. Chris squeezes his eyes shut, but Gerard backhands him across the face with his other hand. "I said—"_

"I said look at him!" Argent drags in a sob.

_He's not dead._

"Oh, God," Argent whispers. "He's not dead. Even after all that, he's—"

_"—still trying to claw his way towards you, do you see that, Christopher?"_

_Chris sees it. Riley's eyes are boring into his, his hand outstretched, blood pouring down his face and bubbling on his lips, an awful rattling wheeze noise coming from somewhere in his chest. There's a name on his lips._

_"He's still trying to kill you!" Gerard shakes Chris by the shoulders. "Like it's the most important thing he can do with his last breath! And you_ let _that into this_ home _. An_ alpha werewolf _. Do you not realize he could have_ killed _one of us? Or worse,_ turned _one of us?_ Any _of us?"_

_Chris lets his gaze flick over once to the doorway. Katie's staring at him with wide eyes. She's only thirteen. She hasn't had all the training Chris has. If Riley had gotten out, and gotten to her instead, she wouldn't have lasted as long as Chris did. And there are children younger than her still inside._

"I'm sorry," Argent whispers, "I'm so sorry, I didn't think, I—"

 _"If you're truly sorry," Gerard says, disgusted, "then do your_ duty _." He takes Chris by the back of his hair and walks him through the warm slippery-slick mess of Riley's guts on the floor over to the weapons table. He grabs Chris's wrist and smacks his hand down on one of the pistols. "Pick it up."_

"You want me to kill him?" Argent asks, voice very small.

 _"The man Riley was died the moment he was bitten," Gerard says, cold and inexorable. "This_ thing _would have gladly ripped your throat out if it had the chance. And anything that dangerous, that out of control, is better off dead." There's a pause, and his voice softens to something almost understanding. "He's in so much pain," Gerard says. "You didn't let him honor the code, so help him now. You'd be doing him a kindness."_

_"I can't," Chris sobs. "I can't—"_

_"I am giving you a chance," Gerard says, tone taking on a new and dangerous edge, "to make up for your mistakes. Not everyone gets so lucky. I would take it."_

"And what fucking choice do I have?" Argent shouts, tears streaming down his face. "Wh-what the hell am I supposed to do, huh? If I don't do it, they'll disown me. If I don't do it, _they will_. It sh-should be me. I can't—" He covers his face with both bloody hands. "I can't—"

 _"—can't save him, Christopher," Gerard says. "So stop_ crying _—"_

"Stop _crying_ ," Argent snarls—

_"And do your duty to your family. You made this mess—"_

Argent whispers, "Now clean it up."

_Riley pulls himself another few inches towards Chris. He's reaching out, hand open, gasping. When he tries to speak it comes out garbled, and he gags and vomits up more black blood onto the floor. His eyes aren't glowing anymore. His claws and fangs are gone. But he doesn't look human; he looks like a sack of rotten meat._

"I can't do this, I can't do this," Argent says, high and panicked, "I should go to him, just one more time, it's all he wanted, it's the only thing he asked me to do—"

 _Chris is shaking. He thinks in a blind panic_ I can't I can't I can't _, but he has to, he_ has _to, he doesn't have a choice. He closes his fingers around the pistol._ Do it _, he tells himself,_ just get it over with, don't think about it, don't be here, it's just target practice, all you have to do is pull the trigger—

_Chris forces himself to take a deep breath. He stops crying._

_He turns to Riley, and raises the pistol. Aims between Riley's eyes, still looking into his._

_His hands are shaking very badly, but he's an Argent._

_At point blank range, he cannot miss._

"I shot him," Argent cries, "I _shot_ him, I p-put him down like a dog—I didn't say goodbye, I didn't even g-go to him, why wouldn't I go to him? How could I do that," he shouts, "I loved him, _why didn't I go to him_?"

"Chris."

Argent flinches back violently. He forgot Derek was there; he's stuck in a nightmare moment twenty-three years ago. Seeing Derek covered in red and black blood, still paralyzed and leaning against the bike, makes his heart lurch.

"It was me," Argent says. He can't catch his breath; he's crying so hard he can barely speak, choking on the horror of it. "R—Riley was turned, but—but he didn't change a bit—he was still sarcastic and kind, and t—terrified to die—" Argent drags his hand down his face. "I was the one who changed. I became the monster. Just like the rest of my family," he says, teeth gritted, "we're _all_ monsters—Kate was right, it was cruel and I'm no better, I've never been any better—"

"Hey," Derek says quietly. Argent cannot look at him. "Hey, come on. Come back now. It's over. It's okay."

Nothing about this is okay. "What are you _doing_ here, Derek?" Argent squeezes his eyes shut. "Of all people, you should be most afraid of me."

There's a long pause. "I could say the same about you."

Argent shakes his head. There is a long silence as he struggles for control.

"I'm not afraid of you," Derek says finally. "After what you did, just now with the Calaveras—I could never be afraid of you again." He pauses. "I'm not going to tell you it wasn't a fucked up thing to do, Chris, but—you think I don't know what that's like?" His voice shakes. "To feel like—like you're not brave enough to say no to someone you're supposed to trust? To just—check out, so your body can do something you think you can't, and wait until it's over?"

"No," Argent says immediately, looking up, "no, Derek, that's not the same at all, you can't compare it to something like that—"

"It's not as different as you think," Derek says. His eyes are bright. "Not when it comes to people like them."

"People like me."

"No." Derek's arm makes an odd, aborted movement—then he tries again, and his hand inches towards Argent's. In a moment Argent feels his thumb press into the hollow of his wrist.

Argent's hit by a fresh wave of tears. "You can't," he says. "You can't take this."

But Derek presses harder, and Argent understands: it's the gesture that counts. It can't do much for this kind of pain, but for Derek, it must feel like the right thing to do.

And so they sit silently like this while they wait—for the kanima venom to wear off, for Argent to stop up his tears.

It may take awhile. After all, it's the first time he's cried in twenty-three years.

 

* * *

 

The half-hour it takes for the kanima venom to finish working its way out of Derek's overtaxed system is one of the longest of his life. It's a special kind of torture watching Chris—Chris Argent!—weep, without being able to offer much in the way of comfort. All Derek has are his words, and there's nothing you can say in the face of that kind of pain: he would know. The only thing you can do is hold on and weather it until it's over.

Chris isn't as upset anymore—not hyperventilating or flashing back—but his tears seem endless, starting anew every time they seem ready to slow. "I'm sorry," he says several times. "I'm sorry, this isn't me, I don't know what's wrong with me—"

Derek knows that kind of crying. When your whole body hurts with it, and you're sure there's not even enough water left in you to make more tears, but they somehow keep coming anyway. He cried like that after the fire. He cried like that the night he found the first half of Laura's body.

Chris hasn't cried like anything in twenty years. Derek's not going to hold it against him.

The venom begins to wear off before Chris can dry it up. Derek, as a rule, isn't a big hugger; he's very particular about how he tolerates being touched, and hugging is a lot of touching all at once, so it isn't his thing. Unless you count Jennifer, and Derek doesn't, the embrace Chris pulled him into awhile ago was actually his first since Laura left New York. Still the first thing he does with his limited mobility is to push himself away from the bike, wrap his arms around Chris's shoulders, and pull him in.

It's a rougher touch than he'd like it to be, and the angle is kind of awkward, but it still gets Chris started again—which Derek kind of expected. "I'm sorry," Chris says again.

Derek sighs, trying to rub his back without hitting any of his wounds. "Chris," he says, as kindly as possible, "shut the hell up."

Chris laughs, watery. "I should be asking if _you're_ all right," he says. "You can't have been looking forward to seeing Kate again."

Hmm. Derek stokes his thumb over Chris's good shoulder. "I'm okay," he says at last, a little surprised to find it's mostly true. He isn't as afraid of her these days, he realizes. Maybe because she can't actually hurt him anymore, not like she did that first time. Even all the terrible things she said stirred up old fear, old shame, and it's harder for them to reach out and grab him when she's not standing here in front of him. Derek thought it was the full shift letting him move on from those feelings more quickly, but...maybe he doesn't always have to change to do it. Maybe it's enough that he can change at all; that the core of him is steady now no matter what shape his body winds up taking. "I was more worried about you," Derek says finally. "You should have left and let me deal with her."

"Out of the question."

"You're not bulletproof, Chris."

"You're not either, not for those kind. You would have died."

Chris has a point. She would have shot at Derek in the end either way, and then where would he be?

Eventually—when it seems like Chris has finally, _finally_ exhausted his tears—Derek pulls away and staggers to his feet to dig out their canteen and first aid kit. He swishes a little water around his mouth first—depressingly enough, he has a routine for this situation, and the first thing he usually does is get the blood out of his mouth—then hands the canteen to Chris so he can do the same while Derek patches him up.

"I can get it," Chris says as he screws the cap back on.

"You're going to need stitches," Derek says tightly, already pulling the pain from his leg, "for the ones on your leg, maybe for a few more. I'll do it." He's stitched Chris up plenty of times.

Chris lays a hand over Derek's. "This isn't your fault."

Easy for him to say. Logically, sure: Derek was drugged, so he wasn't in control. But he fought it off in the end, even when no one else had. If it's possible to do it, it was possible to do it before he ripped Chris to shreds.

Derek takes Chris's pain as he stitches him up. He winds up not needing them anywhere but his leg; for the rest they're able to get by on bandages and antiseptic. The bite, Derek cleans last. Chris has to get all the way out of his jacket and shirt on that side for Derek to be able to reach it, and Derek winces at the sight of it. This is the wound Chris should have had to bear the least. It's not deep, but it is vicious: the left shoulder is the same place Derek bit Victoria.

Derek watches Chris's face as he touches it, being as gentle as he can, and Chris looks up to meet his eyes. He must realize Derek's waiting for permission: he nods once, then turns his head a little so Derek can get to it. The entire time Derek cleans and bandages it he keeps his thumb pressed hard into the hollow of Chris's wrist, so he feels every bit of the sting from the antiseptic and Chris feels none.

When he's finished, he says quietly, "So."

Chris sighs. "Yeah," he says, pulling his shirt and coat back on, "yeah, we've got to keep going, we can't just leave it to the Calaveras. We've got to get her."

Derek nods; nothing different than he expected. "That's what I was going to say too, but—" He pauses. "I don't think we _both_ have to go."

Chris frowns. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Derek waves a hand at his general state. "Chris, I nearly killed you. I don't even know if you can stand, let alone fight."

"I was going to say the same thing about you."

" _I'm_ fine, I'm healing—"

"Yeah, but we're not going to get lucky with green wolfsbane twice," Chris says. "If that's what Kate's using now it might be better for you to stay away from her."

"I'm not afraid of her," Derek says fiercely. "You're the one who should be worried, she just showed us she doesn't care about keeping you alive anymore!"

There's a long pause. Chris smiles.

" _What_ ," Derek says, annoyed.

"You must like me at least a little bit," Chris says, "to care about keeping me alive yourself."

Derek sighs deeply. "I like you enough to not want you to die," he concedes, and stands, putting their things back in the pack. "Can you even get up on your own?"

Chris can. It's a close thing, but when he leans on the bike for support he manages to make it to his feet, though it's clear enough that he's hurting. "See? I'm okay."

That's what Derek always says when he's mortally wounded. "All right," he says, "but your leg is shredded, let me drive."

"You can drive a bike?"

"Not—not exactly," Derek says, "but I've been watching you do it. I can figure it out if you talk me through it." Can't be harder than learning first aid and how to use a gun. Derek's been picking up all kinds of new tricks lately. He swings one leg over the bike. "Throttle's on the right, isn't it?"

"You're gonna kill us," Chris groans, but he pulls himself onto the bike behind Derek anyway. "Throttle's on the right," he agrees. "That lever there, that's the handbrake for the front wheel. The one for the back wheel is by your right foot..."

While Chris goes over the gears and how they work, his arms wrap around Derek's waist, and his chin comes to rest on Derek's shoulder. His weight is warm against Derek's back, his voice low and quiet near Derek's ear. Derek is, maybe, starting see the appeal of a bike.

He doesn't wind up killing them, either. They get a rough start, but Derek's a quick learner and he's not trying to do anything fancy. Even though it isn't as good as running, it's nice to feel the wind whipping his face, clearing his senses after he was practically drowned in the stink of terror. It's not too bright, the cloud cover getting heavier as they creep north; Derek can smell the coming storm, see the lightning flashing over the sea.

"We'd better find her fast," he hollers over his shoulder. "If it rains I'll lose her scent." It hasn't been a concern until now. It was lucky after all that they started this thing in the desert.

The scenery is beautiful here; redwoods and high cliffs over choppy seawater. Even though Derek's tracking Kate by smell, the scents of saltwater and earth and Chris are all a comfort. They're close enough to Beacon Hills now that Derek's starting to recognize a lot of the landmarks; on long weekends and summer vacation his family would come out here to the coast to swim and camp and run. Derek loves California, in a way you can only love a place after you've spent half your life traversing it on foot. This is all his territory, his home, and he's _so lucky_ to still be alive to see it. Twice in the last month alone he should have died, but he's got a good strong anchor keeping him here, and he intends to keep living by it as best as he can for as long as he can. He's going to protect: this place, the people in it. Everyone in it—including the hunter leaning against his back.

Chris should not have to kill any more loved ones.

Maybe loved is too strong a word; he certainly seems to feel no more hesitance at the idea putting Kate down, was so eager to do it during their last confrontation it made him reckless. Because he knows her better now, Derek supposes, than he did when they began; now he knows her more like Derek does. But he also knew her in a way Derek never did and never will: as a child, as his little sister. That person may not exist anymore, but after Riley, after all the family he's lost, Chris shouldn't have to kill what's left. He would—Derek knows he would, because he tried. But he shouldn't have to.

It's funny: Derek wanted to come with Chris because he wasn't sure Chris _could_ kill Kate, a suspicion Chris himself confirmed rather quickly. Now he's here because he knows Chris _would_ kill her, and he doesn't need that weight on him.

They don't spend long on the main highways; it's just after nightfall when Derek has to start slowing down to make the sharp turns on the more remote roads. Kate's trail leads them up into a slightly more mountainous terrain, a place Derek knows is dotted with big private cabins rented out for camping. Eventually, her trail leaves the roads entirely, and the trees are so thick here they have to stop and ditch the bike, too. Just like the preserve, Derek thinks, and is suddenly terribly homesick—but it won't be much longer now.

"I think I know which cabin she must be trying to crash in for the night," he says in a murmur as they hike. "I used to come here a lot as a kid, I know my way around. There's only one up this way—used to be pretty fancy back in its day, three stories, balconies, pool out back, the works. But it's been old and falling in for as long as I can remember. Not many people come out here unless they're just looking to explore or scare themselves stupid on Halloween night—there's nothing else out this way. It's just like all the other places she's been sleeping, except closer to Beacon Hills."

"Homing instinct," Chris says. He sounds impressed. "You were right."

Derek's right about the cabin, too—before long he spots it between the trees, and there's no other place her scent could be leading. "Hang on," he breathes, holding up his hand. "I want to listen."

He closes his eyes and focuses. It takes awhile—he can kind of hear the ocean from here, the wind and the occasional rumble of coming thunder, and there's all the bugs and animals awake at night making sound—but eventually he makes it out: a heartbeat, coming from the cabin.

They've finally got her.

Derek opens his eyes and nods. "In there," he whispers, and the breath he takes is just a little shaky. "She's in there."

He starts towards the cabin, but Chris catches him by the shoulder. "Hang on," he hisses, "what are you gonna do, just run in there with no plan?"

"She is," Derek says, with as much feeling as possible when you're also trying to be totally silent, " _right there_." He jabs a finger in the cabin's direction. "I'm going to go and _kill her_. That's _been_ the plan from the beginning."

"Exactly," Chris says, "she's just _there_. In that nice big dark house full of who-knows-what. I don't know, don't you think that's a little—"

" _Don't_ say 'too easy,'" Derek warns. "People say 'too easy,' bad things happen. Trust me, I'd know." Lightning flashes closeby, briefly illuminating the trees. " _None_ of this has been easy."

"So, what," Chris says, "we just take her by surprise, and that's it? You don't think it's dangerous to underestimate her like that?"

"Two on one—" Derek eyes Chris critically. "—well, one and a half—we can't lose. She thinks we're dead, remember? She'll never see us coming."

"I don't like it," Chris says, folding his arms. "It's too easy."

There's a rustle from the undergrowth nearby.

Derek and Chris exchange a wide-eyed look and scramble for cover behind a nearby rock.

" _Callate_ ," Araya's voice hisses, and the rustling goes quiet—but not silent, not to Derek's ears. He listens hard, and picks out heartbeats, quiet footsteps—at least eight people, maybe more. They're loading weapons, and moving something heavy, he can hear panting and something liquid sloshing in a container. He takes in a breath, trying to learn more, but he can't smell much; they're all downwind.

Derek holds up eight fingers at Chris, then points at his holster. Chris's mouth presses into a thin line. _What are they doing_ , he mouths at Derek.

Derek shakes his head, still listening. The Calaveras are talking to each other as little as possible, probably to avoid Kate's superhearing, but he does catch some high, hissing noise—like sand in an hourglass, and one phrase that makes his heart sink. He waits until the nearest hunter moves further away. "Mountain ash," he breathes, very very quietly and close to Chris's ear. "Surrounding the house."

Chris lets out a slow breath. "I'll go in first," he murmurs, but Derek grabs his good shoulder before he can. He sighs. "I'm serious, Derek. Even aside from the mountain ash, if they see you, they'll all be on you, and there could be wolfsbane traps in the house. You might be the one with supernatural healing but I'm the one who can get past the supernatural traps."

"Why would she use wolfsbane if she thinks she already killed us both?" Derek says. "Right now I don't think I could trip you without you passing out on me halfway to the ground."

"After I've cleared it," Chris says, "you can come in and—protect me."

"I _did_ that to you. What do you think Kate's gonna do?"

Another quiet rustle, and they fall silent again, watching as a dark silhouette moves through the trees, making a wide circle around the cabin. Derek squints, but even he can't tell how close the circle is to closing, how far it goes into the dark. "Or," Derek says once the danger has passed, "we could keep arguing about it while _they_ kill her."

He and Chris exchange a look.

"Come on," Chris says, and gets to his feet, "if we hurry we won't have to break it and Kate won't be able to get out either—"

They make it inside the circle, though Derek isn't sure by how much. Though he can hear the Calaveras nearby, he can't see any of them from where he is, and they also make it into the house without being spotted.

Chris was worried about traps, but now that they're inside Derek can smell blood, see drips of it on the remains of the carpet. She's wounded. She came here to wait and heal. "Hey." He motions downward.

Chris gets out his pistol. "Let's make this fast," he says. "They're gonna be on this place in a few minutes."

They're very careful about traps anyway, because Chris is right: the last thing they need now is for Derek to get hit again. But Derek was right, too: the single trap they do find, a tripwire on the flight of stairs between the first and second floors, leads only to guns with regular bullets. Kate's no longer expecting them. They inch their way closer to her, trying to be both careful and quick; with every second that goes by Derek wonders why the Calaveras haven't began their siege on this house. How long can it take to lay down one circle of mountain ash?

When they get to the top floor Derek nods at a door at the end of a long hallway. He can hear Kate's heartbeat. She's close. He takes a deep breath to catch her scent—

Wait.

Chris nudges his shoulder expectantly, and Derek raises a hand. Then his eyes meet Chris's in horror. "Smoke," he whispers. The liquid he heard earlier must have been gasoline. The Calaveras were never planning a siege: they're going to burn her. Derek rushes back to the stairwell, leaning down—he can see the faint glow of orange light coming from below. Below, their way out of here.

" _Shit_ ," Chris breathes. Yeah, Derek agrees with that sentiment. He'd know—his house was the same—buildings this old, they go up like kindling. They have about five minutes before the whole place burns to the ground. Six or seven, if they're very lucky.

The door at the end of the hall bangs open. It's Kate, some wound still bleeding in her side, looking half-asleep and dazed. She wakes up as soon as she catches sight of them, paling as though she's seen a ghost. But she's still an Argent: in the next instant she raises her pistol and fires off two shots that force Chris and Derek to leap for cover in two empty rooms in opposite directions.

"I killed you!" she says, in the dark. "I killed both of you! You were _dead_."

She sounds shaken, for once, which Derek can't deny he finds satisfying.

"Come on," Kate shouts, "not gonna come out and try to kill me?" She stalks forward. "What are you hiding for? Say something! _Come on!_ " The last part comes out with a roar; Kate's shifted.

Derek trades a look with Chris across the hall. He does have one thing to say. "Building's on fire," he calls, with grim satisfaction. The air is getting warmer; when he dares look back out into the hallway to check he sees flames leaping up out of the stairwell. How the hell are they going to get out of here?

They hear Kate's footsteps rushing towards the far end of the wall; she must be going for the window. While her back's turned Chris leans out from his cover and fires. Derek leaps out into the hallway entirely, shocked to find it already filling with smoke. When Kate sees Derek she turns and lunges at him in fury, pistol forgotten in the sheer rage she can't control. She tackles him and they hit the floor and roll, stopping just shy of the stairwell, Kate pinning Derek to the floor.

"You think he _likes_ you?" she spits. "You think you're anything more to him than a warm body on a cold night?" She claws him across the face, once, twice—then Derek grabs her wrist to yank her off him, heart going double-time at the feeling of her body pressed against his again. He scrambles to his feet, letting the shift come: he's not afraid. He's not.

He's going to kill her.

"What do you think he's gonna _do_ once I'm gone," Kate pants, swiping her claws at Derek again, "stick around in _Beacon Hills_ to play house with the guy that fucked his sister and bit his wife?" Derek dodges backwards, the blows coming too fast for him to retaliate. Kate's between Derek and the room where Chris is taking cover, though, and as soon as Derek realizes it he hears Chris fire. There's no possible way he can see through all the smoke, but he somehow still manages to land one in her leg.

Kate screams a curse, doubling over, and this time Derek jumps on _her._  His skin crawls with revulsion at the contact, but it doesn't matter—he wants her _dead_. They roll again, dangerously close to the flaming stairwell, and Derek raises his hand to claw out her throat, but that leaves his side exposed and she sticks hers in him instead, right in the still-healing bullet wound.

Derek cries out in agony, blood filling his mouth, and hears Chris call his name from somewhere far beyond the whiting out of his vision. Kate leans up, pushing him back off her, her fingers still stuck between his ribs.

"You don't know the things about him I do," she hisses, her breath hot on his ear, "you don't know how cold-hearted he can be. Sooner or later he's gonna see _you_ for the animal you are, just like he's seeing it in me. That's his nature. And I guarantee you, Derek—" His hands grab at her wrist, tugging uselessly. "The next thing he'll slip between those pretty pink lips of yours will be his .45."

Derek gasps a smoke-filled breath, grips Kate's wrist a little tighter, and breaks it.

Kate screams, jerking back out of his range. Derek stumbles to his feet and with all his might pushes forward; his hands hit Kate's body and she flies back towards the stairwell.

She tumbles backward, down half the flight of burning stairs, but stops just short of falling further, into the gaping pit where the rest of the house used to be, now nothing but flames. She gets her feet back under her—

A flaming beam falls in from the ceiling. Derek barely manages to jump backwards in time; it still catches the edge of his foot and nearly pulls him down with it. For a moment his vision is nothing but smoke and embers, but when it clears he looks back down the stairwell to see it's taken the upper part with it. Kate is standing on the only two feet of floor left.

He can't reach her anymore, but that doesn't matter. She's dead.

Derek gets to his feet, squinting through the heat. "He didn't want to kill you," he shouts. "Not when we started. He changed his mind because of me."

Kate looks around for an escape; finds none. "Because you're a good lay?" she snarls, helpless and furious. "Big fucking deal, Derek, anyone can get into someone's head through their pants!"

Kate's very presence always terrified him; larger than life whenever she walked into a room and ten times as dangerous. Now she seems—smaller, somehow. "Because he's a good man," Derek says, staring down at her. "He's a good man—and you're a monster."

Something else creaks in the ceiling, and Derek's head jerks up as he instinctively scents the air. All he can smell is smoke. Where is Chris?

"Derek," Kate warns, "don't you leave me here, you finish it, you _finish_ it, you think you can kill me then you be a man about it—"

Slowly, Derek shakes his head. Even if he could get to her, he wouldn't do it. Let her taste a little fire herself. He backs away from the stairwell, then rushes into the hallway, leaving her behind.

"Derek!" Kate screams. "I said come back here and finish it, you fucking coward!"

Derek finds Chris face-down in the hallway and his chest seizes in terror. Is he—? No—when Derek drops to his knees beside him he finds he really has just passed out. He gathers Chris up in his arms, frantic to find some way out. He's not going to let anyone else die like his family did, he's not, not now that he's here to stop it—

No one except Kate, anyway. "Derek!" she screams from the stairwell. He smells the distinct scent of cooking flesh; the exact same scent from the fire that took his family. " _Derek—!_ "

She had the right idea, with the windows. He can't go down; the only way to go is out. Three stories isn't so bad, not for someone like him. He starts for the end of the hallway where Kate came from to begin with, making sure to get a running start.

Before he jumps, he hones his senses in on Kate.

He listens to her heartbeat as he jumps. As he hits the ground, shielding Chris's body with his own so he doesn't break anything else. As he drags Chris away from the fire, as far as he can possibly get, before he hits the mountain ash barrier and finds half a dozen Calaveras staring at him in horror as though he's been raised from the dead. He listens to her heartbeat racing, because she's dying and she knows it. He counts the seconds, because he'd always wondered how long it took one of their kind to die this way; exactly how long his mother suffered; how long his youngest sister, only five, really suffered.

It takes about two and a half minutes for her to go silent. Another forty-five seconds for her heart to stop, which it does when the building falls in.

And that's it: she's gone. Never again will she lay a hand on Derek. No more can she darken his doorstep. He's free.

Mercy of mercies: Chris stayed unconscious the entire time she was screaming.

 

* * *

 

"Break it. I haven't laid a finger on any of you."

"We can't. The mountain ash contains the fire, lobito. We break it, the whole mountain goes up."

A low growl. "You can put it _back_." Then: "Chris. Chris." Someone shaking his shoulders. "Come on—you have to wake up. Like right now."

He doesn't want to; he hurts everywhere and he's exhausted. Let him rest just a few more moments.

There's an exasperated sigh. " _Argent_ ," says Derek, and his eyes snap open.

Derek's face above him, smudged with soot and blood, somehow looking both genuinely concerned and incredibly annoyed at the same time. "Figures," he mutters, but he sticks his hand out to grab onto.

Chris Argent sits up, rubbing the ash out of his eyes, and squints at the burning wreck of a building in the distance. He knows without being told that Kate is dead. Maybe because of the stench in the air and the intensity of the fire, or maybe it was something about the look in Derek's eyes—Derek, who looked more worried just now than he has been since they started this thing.

"Might as well go ahead and stick with Chris," says Chris, and twists around to look at Derek. "She's gone."

It's not a question. Derek nods anyway.

Chris tries for some regret, some grief, anything—but right what he feels most is a numb, with a faint, hollow sense relief. It's over. At least it's over.

He struggles to his feet and faces the Calaveras. Araya has her pistol out and trained on them. "Ah, hell," he mutters.

"Shockingly," Derek says, "they don't want to let us out."

Chris fights down a hysterical laugh.

"You should have died," Araya says, looking them over very carefully. "No wolf lives after being hit with that poison. What did you do?"

Chris shrugs. "Burned out the wolfsbane," he says.

Araya narrows her eyes. She's never going to believe them, Chris realizes. Not in a hundred years. There's no explanation he could give, true or false, that would satisfy her.

"A deal's a deal," Chris says. "Kate's dead. That means no hunting Scott and his pack, which Derek is a part of. You don't let us out soon, it'll be too late to keep your end."

"They had to use fire," Derek mutters.

"We did have to use fire," Araya agrees. "It was always my intention to burn Kate if it was possible."

Derek's mouth drops open. " _Why?_ "

"She burned children alive," Araya says. "Human children, and werewolf children who had harmed no one, and then had to gall to call herself a hunter. That's not in our code."

Chris shivers a little. Derek's face does something complicated, some strange mix of outrage and sadness. "And what about the others? My mother and father?"

"The retribution is not for them," Araya says, and lowers her pistol, "and we have no retribution for you. You're right: a deal is a deal."

Chris lets out a breath of relief and kicks his foot through the mountain ash barrier. As soon as Derek's through they re-close the circle. They're going to let it all burn to ash, he assumes; probably for the better, to make sure Kate can't heal. But he doesn't want to be around when they examine her body, or what's left of it. He wants to be far away from here.

He spots Maria milling around watching the fire. "Looks like you didn't need my help after all," she says. She nods over at Derek, who has reluctantly accepted one of the hunters' canteens to swish blood out of his mouth. "How did you do it—really?"

"I burned the wolfsbane out of him," Chris repeats. She gives him a skeptical look, and he spreads his hands: all he can do is be honest. "He let me. He could hear me, and he wanted me to do it. You'd be surprised to find how much control werewolves are capable of."

She shakes her head like she isn't sure believes him, but she does say, "Your code. What was it again?"

He smiles, a little sad. "We protect those who cannot protect themselves."

"That doesn't sound so bad." She looks a little sad too. "Maybe less people die that way."

"I'd like to hope so." Chris glances over at Derek, who is watching, waiting for him. "I should tell you—your bike's not too far from here. I probably won't have another chance to give it back."

"You still have it?" Maria asks, surprised. "I can't believe it took you this far. It belonged to my brother, but it just sits there collecting dust at home—I don't work on it, I never liked riding much. You keep it, if you think you'll use it. "

He wonders which brother she means—the one who honored the code, or the one who didn't. "I can't accept something like that."

"Sure you can." She smiles a little. "He'd be happier to know _someone_ was still riding that stupid thing around." Then she sticks out her hand. "Good luck protecting Beacon Hills. The things I've heard—you couldn't pay me enough to set foot in that town."

Chris shakes on that inspiring vote of confidence. "I'll take good care of the bike," he promises.

Chris has to help Derek limp away from the fire; he caught a burn on his foot that has him hissing every time he sets it to the ground, and he has five deep wounds in the same side, one aligned perfectly with the place the bullet hit him earlier. "You gonna be okay?"

"Great," Derek says tightly.

"I was passed out at the end," Chris says. "Did she—?" Say anything, do anything? Chris doesn't know how to ask the question without sounding like he's coddling. "I mean, really. Are you okay?"

Derek sucks in a breath through his teeth. "It was better that you were out."

Chris doesn't exactly feel reassured by that, but he's in pain himself and can't catch his breath well enough to speak, so for now he decides to leave it alone.

"I'm...sorry about Kate," Derek says when they get back to the bike. " _Not_ that she's dead, but—that you had to lose someone else."

Chris shakes his head. "I lost her a long time ago." She lost herself—a lot like Chris nearly did, like he could have and would have if not for people like Allison and Derek and Scott determined to find better ways and give second chances. "You don't need to worry about me," he says. Kate's death doesn't even—hurt, not like he expected it would. But maybe that's the exhaustion. Maybe it will hurt later; if it does, or if it doesn't, he'll deal with that then. "Where to now?"

"Some place to sleep," Derek says, "where I can't smell the smoke."

Chris throws one leg over the bike; this time, he's driving. "How about home?" he says. "We're only about an hour out. Think you can make it that long?"

Derek sighs, climbing on behind Chris, slipping his arms gingerly around his waist. "Home," he says, "sounds great."

 

* * *

 

Only five minutes or so from Derek's loft, the sky finally breaks and begins to pour.

Derek was half-asleep against Chris's back, listening to the rumble of the bike's engine and the thunder, lazily watching the roads and landscape get more and more familiar while he let his body heal. The cold water shocks him right to life, though, and he's drenched in seconds, the shivery-cold feeling that comes with healing getting about a hundred times worse.

"Almost there," Chris calls over his shoulder.

Derek knows. He has the homing instinct too, and his blood's been singing with it ever since they departed for Beacon Hills. His loft isn't the preserve—that's where his true home will always be, out among those trees, where he ran with Laura, before he knew what sadness was—but it's close enough to satisfy the instinct, and close enough to brave the rain for. They're almost there. He's almost home.

Derek grabs their pack and jumps off the bike as soon as Chris parks, his foot already healed, grinning despite how cold he is because it's good to feel this ground under his feet again, it's good to feel the water washing away the scents of soot and blood and the very last traces of Kate there will ever be, it's good to feel this alive. "You coming?" he asks Chris, and doesn't realize until the question's passed his lips and Chris's expression changes that he wasn't sure he was invited. "Come on," he says, "you don't really think I'd leave you out here for dead, do you?"

Chris tips his head back and laughs. Then he gets off the bike too, takes Derek's face in his hands, and kisses him. "No," he says, looking terribly fond.

A crack of thunder makes them jump. "Inside," says Derek, and lets his fingers close around Chris's wrist for a moment to make sure he's coming.

It's dark and freezing in Derek's loft. Maintenance fixed the window, and he and Braeden cleaned up most of the broken glass and furniture before they left to rescue Scott and Kira, but of course no one thought to turn on the heating. He and Chris are both shivering by the time they get inside, and they immediately start peeling off their wet clothes without even bothering to hit the lights.

Chris sucks in a breath when Derek's bloodied shirt comes off. "Derek."

"I'm okay," Derek says automatically, teeth chattering, "I'm h-healing, it's fine." It doesn't even hurt anymore.

"Let me see it." Chris shucks his jeans and leaves his boxers on, walking over to Derek.

Derek does let him see, turning and pulling his arm back out of the way. It's still a little bloody, but the wounds are closed and already scabbing over—it is healing, which is part of the reason Derek's still shivering. Chris brings a careful hand up to touch those places where Kate tore her way into Derek. Derek starts a little from how cold his hands are, but when Chris makes to pull back Derek catches him by the wrist.

"Sorry," Chris murmurs. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating his face.

"They're n-not as bad as yours," Derek says. It was harder to see the extent of the damage when Chris was dressed, but Derek really did knock him around pretty good; he's got scratches on every limb except his right arm, stitches in his left leg, a cut on his temple, clawmarks and bruises on his cheek—and, of course, the bite. "N-nearly killed you," Derek says, touching his fingers to that bandage.

"I'm _okay_ ," Chris says, frowning, "are you? Hey—seriously," he says, catching Derek's face in one hand, gently turning his head to meet Chris's eyes. "She hurt you?"

There was surely a time when Derek would have found the concern annoying at best, but right now he thinks it's—kind of sweet, if largely unnecessary. Chris doesn't mean the wound, Derek knows; he's including every type of hurt Kate can dish out, and because it's Kate there are a lot. But she didn't hurt Derek—she tried, she always tries, that's just Kate: she has a talent for finding tenderest places to twist her knife, for knowing the worst possible thing to say. But nothing she said today can hurt him now. It only stirred up the old pain, the old fears. Derek shakes his head, turning his face a little into Chris's palm, because the last person who laid hands on him was Kate and he just wants her out of his skin. "I'm just c-cold."

"C'mon," Chris says. "Let's lie down, get you warm."

Chris strips completely before he climbs into bed, because of course his shorts are soaked just like the rest of his clothes were, and so does Derek, only hesitating a split second before deciding he can't be bothered to find a new pair of pants. He climbs in next to Chris, immediately sinking into his body heat. This is what he needed, he realizes—this entire month he's been using Chris's touch to clear his head of Kate's scent and the sound of fire, and tonight's no different, not really. He props himself up on his elbows and leans down to kiss Chris, humming when he feels Chris's good arm loop around his waist.

Chris chuckles. "You're not too tired for all that?"

Derek's exhausted, but it's the kind of tired that keeps you awake just on account of how long you've been fighting it, because your body just doesn't know how to give up. "Not if you're not."

"No," Chris murmurs, and leans up to kiss Derek again. His hand slides up Derek's side, to rest over the place Kate wounded him, and Derek feels himself begin to relax.

The easiness of it is strange to Derek, if in a good way: he remembers when they first began, how hard he tried to keep every touch as unfamiliar and impersonal as he could, even with what they were doing each night. Back when he was still torn up over being this way with someone he thought of as just another Argent, before he knew the truth of it, that Chris was also like him, just another person the Argents left in their wake. Derek's not sure when it happened—when, exactly, Chris's touch went from unwelcome to something he couldn't let himself have to the easy and thoughtless thing it is now—but he likes it. He's spent plenty of years avoiding human contact because of how invasive it usually felt; now that it's working, his skin is starved for it.

Derek slides his hand up the outside of Chris's left arm as they kiss, leeching pain specifically from the bite on his shoulder. Chris relaxes too, the way he always does under Derek's hands when Derek does this, though he's sure to murmur into Derek's mouth, "You don't have to do that."

"I want to." Pain's not so bad for something like him, and Derek gets his enjoyment out of Chris's. From the way Chris goes lax under his touch; the way he arches up into Derek's mouth when Derek leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses against his damp skin; the way Chris strokes his hands through Derek's hair when Derek takes him in his mouth.

From the way he lets Derek touch those scars on his hip, wounds much older than the ones Derek left on him today—but only for a moment, before he reaches down and laces their fingers together instead.

What is Derek getting out of this? The same thing he has since the first time: closeness with someone else, his way, on his terms, so he could know for certain it wouldn't go sour on him. That knowledge just comes much easier, these days.

Derek likes to kiss Chris when he comes, but he suspects Chris kind of likes getting off in his mouth better. Tonight he's aiming to please—after all he did beat the shit out of the guy earlier—and he lets Chris come in his mouth. He doesn't particularly mind; it's nearly as good, and after the fire and Kate it's better to be drowning in the scent and taste of Chris than anything else. Chris pulls him up to kiss him after, though; he always does. Derek appreciates that he isn't squeamish about it.

"Hey," Chris murmurs, between kisses. His hands are on the small of Derek's back, Derek lying half on-top of him. "Hey, if you wanted—we could try again."

"Mmm." Derek's not so sure. Knowing _why_ Chris will startle when Derek flashes his eyes or fangs won't make it any less awful to deal with, or any less inevitable. It might actually make it worse. He'd like to think after using his new anchor to fight off the effects of the green wolfsbane he now has the level of perfect control anger gave him, but he can't guarantee it. "Probably won't work."

"That's what you said last time."

Derek drops his head onto Chris's good shoulder. "Yeah, and it didn't."

"But that was on me," Chris says. "It won't happen like that again." He tips Derek's chin up with one hand. "I'm not afraid of you, either, you know."

He's trying. Derek's grown a little weak to it, honestly.

"I'm just saying it's on the table," Chris says. He rubs Derek's back. He's always so tactile right after he comes, when Derek lets him be. "Is it—you know, working for you right now?"

Despite being hard—blowing Chris always gets him up—Derek hadn't actually been paying any real attention to it. He shifts experimentally against Chris's hip and shudders, mouth dropping open: the friction and pressure is just right, sends a slow easy slide of arousal right up his spine. He's not used to that sensation coming without several worse ones. It is _much_ better without clothing. "Yeah," he breathes, "yeah, it's working."

"Your call," Chris says. Derek appreciates that, too.

He sighs, long and slow. It probably won't work. But: "Why not," Derek mutters, and eases over a little so they can change positions, so Chris can get on top of him like before, settled between Derek's spread legs. Might as well see how far they can get, right?

"You, uh, don't sound too sure," Chris says. "Am I supposed to ask again?"

Ugh. Derek appreciates _that_ so much it actually annoys him. "I'm sure," he says, and pulls Chris into another kiss so he'll stop asking stupid questions. "Just your—"

"—hands, yeah, I remember," Chris says. "Take it easy, I gotcha."

Derek's half-tensed, kind of waiting for him to just reach down and go for it, but Chris knows him better than that. He kisses Derek again first, easy and unhurried, one hand rubbing up and down his side, slowly moving his mouth over the line of Derek's jaw. Derek rolls his shoulders into the mattress, relaxing again, and rocks his hips up into Chris's abdomen.

Chris tends not to be very noisy during sex, so Derek is a little embarrassed by the high one that gets out of him, the way he has to grab onto Chris's shoulders all the sudden.

Chris doesn't seem to mind. "There you go," he murmurs, voice low and pleased and very close to Derek's ear.

Somehow it goes straight to Derek's cock, makes his face and chest flush. God, is this how other people feel all the time? Sure, Derek took that jab at Chris awhile back for suggesting he didn't get sex was supposed to be good, but Derek got it in the objective way—not like _this_ , this immediate feedback lighting up his whole body with want from just the barest minimum of touch.

It's never been like this for Derek before, never, not with _anyone_. When Chris's lips touch the place behind his ear Derek shivers, tips his head to let Chris get at his neck; when he thumbs over one nipple Derek gasps and arches up into it, which of course has his cock sliding slick against Chris's stomach again.

And for all that Chris still hasn't actually touched him; when he does he makes sure to telegraph the movement first, giving Derek plenty of warning as he shifts over and reaches down between their bodies. He starts slow, the backs of his fingers brushing over the underside. And Derek—he's never actually been this noisy during sex, either, but though he bites his lip to keep it in a high thready noise still fights its way out of him.

"S'okay," Chris murmurs, thumb stroking Derek's cheek, "make a little noise if you want to, Derek. You own the building, who the hell's going to hear you, especially over the storm?"

Derek shakes his head wordlessly, mouth fallen open, eyes shut.

"You're fine," Chris says, and Derek's grip on his shoulders tightens, "you sound good, you look good. Nothing to worry about." Oh, God. Chris is—Chris is a talker, isn't he, when he's on this end of things. Derek can't believe it. He's been blowing this guy for a month and had no idea. "No one can hear you, come on, it's just you and me."

"Fuck," Derek croaks, as Chris wraps his hand around Derek's cock, starts moving in slow, steady pulls. Derek squeezes his eyes shut, head dropping back onto the pillow. "Oh my God—"

"That's it," Chris says, laying a couple of kisses on Derek's jaw, "hey, there you go. Good?"

"Fantastic," Derek replies weakly, face flushed, heart racing, hips pumping up into Chris's hand. He can hardly take it—it's overwhelming in the only good way, and he's vulnerable, he knows he is, more than he's been in his whole life maybe, but he doesn't want to stop. He's _so_ close— "Nearly," he gasps. He can't believe it's taken this long.

Chris picks up his speed a little, and Derek moves into his hand, but something's—something's not working right, it's like he's run into a wall and he's right on the edge but he just can't _get_ there. "Oh, come on," Derek mutters, a little desperate; with Kate he always had the opposite problem, and it's not fair that his body's trying to screw with him _now_ of all times. It stalls long enough for Derek to be annoyed, and then embarrassed, and then ashamed. What is _wrong_ with him, why can't he just have this—he wants it, he does, it's not _like_ before—

But it doesn't happen, and it keeps not happening, and Derek is about two seconds from telling Chris to forget the whole thing when Chris says, "Easy, hey, hey." He slows down again, cupping Derek's face. "You can relax, you don't have to force it. No pressure," he says, meeting Derek's eyes, looking serious. "Just—uh, feel it, you know? It's fine, it's not a race, take your time."

A small defensive part of Derek wants to snap at Chris that that's very obvious advice and he isn't an idiot, but most of him _is_ trying to relax, for whatever it's worth. Because it is fine: it's just Chris, after all. Derek doesn't—have to do anything. He takes one deep breath and then another, and pulls Chris down to kiss him. Some of the tension leaves his body.

"There you go," Chris says again, close to his ear, and perhaps that's what does it; the pleasant shiver it sends down Derek's spine. He cries out and comes hard in Chris's hand, hips jerking up, fingers digging into his back, quiet little noises escaping him on exhalations. Chris holds him through it, hand in his hair, his lips on Derek's, and when it's over Derek is trembling, throat tight.

He didn't think he could do that—he really didn't. He figured he'd live and die without ever feeling like this with someone else even once.

Derek buries his face in Chris's neck, breathing hard. "Okay?" Chris asks, and Derek nods but doesn't speak, because he's determined not to be somebody who cries after sex. He does anyway, though, just a little, enough to wet his eyelashes against Chris's skin.

"Hey," Chris says, stunned, stroking Derek's hair, "you good, you sure?"

Derek nods again and tries to sniff surreptitiously. "If you laugh," he mumbles, "I'm gonna kill you for real."

"Trust me," Chris says, "I'm not. Hey—it was amazing. Thanks. Most fun I've ever had jerking anybody off."

Derek laughs thickly. "Most fun I've ever had _being_ jerked off," he responds, pulling back enough to see Chris's face. They both get kind of quiet as they realize what he said, but Derek clears his throat and adds to break the silence, "Solid eight out of ten."

It makes Chris laugh, the smile behind it reaching his eyes.

"I gotta get up," Derek mutters reluctantly, "I can't sleep like this, I gotta clean up—"

"I'll get it," Chris says immediately, "stay here, I got it." He presses a kiss to Derek's temple and climbs out of bed, despite the fact that he's leaving all the warm air between the blankets. Good God, Derek thinks, he must like to dote, too. He's learning all kinds of new things about Chris today.

Doting—that's a lot. Derek is beginning to suspect he may be in over his head.

Somehow, he thinks, after they've cleaned up and he's lying with his head on Chris's good shoulder again, listening to his heart and the rain, somehow—he doesn't think he minds.

 

* * *

 

Chris wakes entirely without fuss to the sun streaming through Derek's high windows. Derek's already awake, eyes open, though he hasn't moved from his place on Chris's chest. Something fiercely protective wells in Chris at the sight of him, which is no surprise—Chris has always been this way about the people he cares about. Especially since—

Since—

"What're you thinking about?" Derek asks, sleepy.

Maybe Chris's heartbeat rose. He sighs, thumb stroking the skin of Derek's shoulder. "Some bad things I've done."

"Can't undo them," Derek says, and closes his eyes again. He hesitates. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

Chris knows what he's really asking: _Are you here to stay?_

It's a fair question. Chris doesn't know much about Cora, but he knows she had to leave because staying here was too painful. Chris can relate to that sentiment. Somewhere still in this town is the last home he ever shared with his daughter, the room he helped his wife kill herself in, and a garage where he did something unthinkable. There are certain streets Chris hasn't been able to turn down in years, and maybe never will be. Almost everyone he's ever loved is buried in this town. Every landmark he can think of holds a memory of someone who died.

But Derek's here. The pack is here. A month ago Chris insisted he had nothing left. Now he knows it isn't true. It's not the life he had before—that's gone for good, and nothing can replace it—but it's something. It's _becoming_ something, and he'd like to be here to see how it turns out.

"This town needs someone to protect it, right?" Chris asks. "Turns out I'm in the business."

Derek squints at him. "For how long?"

Chris shrugs. "As long as it takes." To—what, he isn't sure. It's not a numbers game; saving one innocent life doesn't just cancel out ending another. But Chris has done so much bad in his lifetime, and the people here try so hard to do good. It's what Allison wanted to do. It's what he'll do for her, because she can't do it herself. She's gone, and all he has left of her is a wish and a promise and—an anchor, her code, weighing him steady to this town, for every long day of every long year for the rest of the long life that he'll have to live without her.

Love it or hate it: home is home.

"Indefinitely, I suppose," Chris adds. "It'll probably take awhile."

"...good," Derek decides, and settles back down onto Chris's chest. "I should warn you," he adds reluctantly. "This?" He waves a hand at their general situation. "This is getting out eventually. Werewolves smell everything, especially the young ones, and they're really hard to lie to."

"Tell me about it," Chris mutters; he's learned that from experience. "Yeah," he agrees, "that's gonna be awkward," and Derek laughs into his skin.

It's going to be _very_ awkward, there's going to be horrible questions, and Chris doesn't actually have a place to live outside his family's old underground bunker, and he's still going to get choked up every goddamn time he drives past the school, and it'll be two weeks minimum before his freshest set of stitches can come out—but there's good here too. The work is something he needs to do, and...

Well, odd a match as it may seem, Derek makes him happy. And you don't come across happiness too often in a life like this. When you do, you've got to try and grab on with both hands.

That's something he learned from his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Before we do the really long warning section, I would like to take a moment to thank a very cool and special friend of mine, who encouraged me to write this when I was wondering if I even should, and gave me invaluable feedback throughout the entire process. Thank you, Emily ([@marcusanthotius](http://marcusanthotius.tumblr.com/)), for your near-constant encouragement on this project; sharing it with you as I went made it an absolute joy to work on. ❤
> 
> I would also like to thank Coralie ([@machidielontheway](http://machidielontheway.tumblr.com/)) for all her help translating the French. Not everyone gets lucky enough to have a native speaker translating their work and I couldn't be more thrilled or grateful. Coralie helped shape this fic in a small way: while I was originally going to have Chris speak near-perfect French, Derek's "B+" comment on Chris's accent is actually her own evaluation of JR Bourne's French in the show, and I loved it too much not to apply it to this fic.
> 
> And finally, I blog about this ship on [@thedegenerateasexual](http://thedegenerateasexual.tumblr.com/), if you want to come yell with me about it. If you like to reblog stuff, [you can reblog this fic](https://thedegenerateasexual.tumblr.com/post/164007193539/anchor-thegeminisage-archive-of-our-own)! If you like trivia, I also made a list of things I referenced in this fic, either outside works or the show itself, which you can read [here](https://thedegenerateasexual.tumblr.com/post/164619067499/).
> 
>  **TIMELINE STUFF:** I largely follow [this timeline](http://www.teenwolfwiki.com/Timeline), with a few changes - I had the fire happen on Derek's sixteenth birthday because there's another character I love who had a fire happen on a very important birthday of his (hi, [Jesse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/9502)!). I also aged Kate up a few years to close the gap between her and Chris, not only so that she could be old enough to be present during a pivotal moment of Chris's history (when the rabid dog story takes place) but also because it's more likely that they were closer when they were younger if they are a similar age. So the fire takes place in November 2004, and Kate was born in 1976 instead of 1983, but otherwise the timeline for this fic should match the one at the link exactly.
> 
>  **SPOILERY/DETAILED WARNINGS:** This story deals very heavily with Derek's sexual history and sexual encounters that were not 100% consensual. In the backstory I give him for this fic, many of the encounters he had with Kate (that happened over a period of months when he was 15 and she was an adult substitute teaching at the high school) involved coercion. His encounters with Jennifer resemble something more like being drugged; he cannot remember how many times they had sex or the encounters themselves. In the present (all the time that this fic takes place in), Derek initially has an averse reaction to being touched sexually (even when he touches himself) and generally only likes touching others. He's very firm about his boundaries and they are never violated - twice he attempts to allow Chris to touch him, and one time they have to stop (because Derek's pulse rises and he has trouble controlling the shift) and one time it goes well. All the Derek/Chris is extremely consensual, though Derek at first chooses to have sex to assert control rather than for emotional intimacy and at some points feels conflicted about who he's blowing. At first he also experiences a sort of post-coital depression that's so delayed it looks like pre-coital depression, and also uses the sex to distract himself from that feeling among the other unpleasant ones he gets from tracking Kate, and this gradually eases up as the fic goes on.
> 
> Warnings NOT related to Derek's sexual history (geez) include content about grief, nightmares and sleep paralysis, trauma and trauma-related memory loss, extremely vivid flashbacks of a traumatic event, indoctrination, what happens to a person when they are burned to death, former suicidal ideation, assisted ritualistic suicide, and the general horrible mindfuck that is growing up in the Argent family. The minor character death tagged is for Kate Argent.
> 
> ...that's a lot of warnings! But better safe than sorry. 
> 
> There will probably be More Content for these dudes in the future (thus the series...), so stay tuned if that's your thing! 
> 
> And finally: thank you so, so much for reading. ❤


End file.
